


Flies in an Emerald Web

by Freya_Kendra



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Kendra/pseuds/Freya_Kendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of his student's draws Blair into an intricate web involving the FBI, the CIA and emerald smugglers who won't hesitate to kill anyone who gets in their way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flies in an Emerald Web

**Author's Note:**

> *First published by Neon Rainbow Press in Sensory Overload #8, May, 2003.

Blair Sandburg's lecture was running late, but he could not stop talking, not when his class was finally starting to reach a level of understanding it had taken weeks to achieve. "Yes," he nodded excitedly and pointed to the student who'd made the last comment. "But remember, to the Mayans sacrifice isn't just about keeping the gods happy, it's about maintaining a sort of balance between the layers of reality. Here. . ." He held up his hand in the universal gesture meaning "wait," and turned from his class to leaf through a series of papers until he found the one he wanted. When he returned to the podium, he noticed a small number of students closing books and filling backpacks.

"Okay, just give me a minute here," he said with a quick glance at the clock before returning his attention to the excerpt he'd found. "As Martin Prechtel put it, 'shamans are sometimes considered healers or doctors, but really they are people who deal with the tears and holes we create in the net of life, the damage that we all cause in our search for survival. In a sense, all of us even the most un-technological, spiritual and benign peoples are constantly wrecking the world. The question is: how do we respond to the destruction? If we respond as we do in modern culture, by ignoring the spiritual debt we create just by living, then that debt will come back to bite us, hard.'"

Blair paused only for a second at the muffled sound of chuckles. Good. At least some of them were still listening. "'One is to try to repay that debt by giving gifts of beauty and praise to the sacred, to the invisible world that gives us life. Shamans deal with problems that arise when we forget the relationship that exists between us and the other world that feeds us, or when, for whatever reason, we don't feed the other world in return.'"

Pointedly ignoring the clock, Blair looked back at his class. "With the Mayans, sacrifice isn't just about feeding a hungry god, or even about appeasing an angry one. It's about a mutual exchange between the worlds, or between the layers of this one."

The minute hand had already passed the hour mark and that small number of restless students was rapidly growing to a majority. "Okay. I'm sorry we ran late, but. . ." Blair's words were enough of a cue to get the class to its feet and moving toward the exits. He would have to shout to get his last message heard. "Martin Prechtel, Secrets of the Talking Jaguar. Be prepared to discuss it on Monday. And some of you still owe me your papers on Popol Vuh."

In seconds the room was empty, or nearly so. One student remained. A tall, bony, redhead with a seemingly permanent slouch, Jake Connelly never appeared to be particularly eager to leave Blair's classroom. It was always as though he had something important on his mind, something he needed to discuss with Blair that would require a certain degree of privacy, hence the need to wait for his classmates to leave the room. Yet whatever those vital words were, they never materialized. Blair could almost imagine them hovering on the edge of Jake's tongue, frequently close to escaping past his soundlessly moving lips, but inevitably giving way to a timidly uttered, "Have a nice weekend, Mr. Sandburg," or something equally inane.

Whatever Jake might say this time, Blair knew he should be able to deal with it in his usual easy-going manner, seeing it as nothing more than a minor interruption in his day - especially since he was already buoyed into a kind of adrenaline-high that had everything to do with discovery and learning and nothing at all to do with chasing bad guys with his sentinel and partner, Jim. But he wasn't really up for another of Jake's empty conversations. He'd already tried about a million different ways to push Jake's magic button, the one that would release the flood of swallowed words. Sure, he'd occasionally be rewarded with a comment or two about Jake's absent parents - who apparently spent more time globe-trotting than speaking with their son - or about an uncle living in Cascade; but even then there was never any depth to the words. The heart of Jake's thoughts always remained unspoken. The odds that today might bring anything different were negligible. And since Blair had already held the class late and was due to meet Jim in less than an hour, it was hard to keep his frustration from showing.

Nonetheless, he managed a friendly, "Hey, Jake," and forced a smile, trying hard to ignore the clock. "Any big plans for the weekend?"

Jake just shrugged and looked down at his desk.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It went against the usual pattern. Jake should already be standing, shuffling from one foot to another while his eyes danced back and forth between Blair's and any number of spots in the room.

Blair forgot about the clock. "Is something wrong, Jake?"

The student's bright, green eyes glanced up for a split second, then just as quickly his gaze dropped back to the desk where his hands had begun tearing away at the edges of a notebook. "Mr. Sandburg?" His voice was surprisingly firm even while his eyes remained downcast. "You know how you said emeralds from the Muzo mine are still considered to be among the finest in the world?"

"What-? Oh, you mean from last week's lecture about Popol Vuh?" Blair smiled in earnest. "I'm impressed you remembered that. I'm not even sure I remember saying it, but emeralds did play an important role in the creation myth, and-"

"I have some."

Blair's smile gave way to surprise. "You . . . you what?"

"I have some. Emeralds. From the Muzo mine."

"You mean you have one, right Jake?" Blair laughed uncomfortably. "I mean, to say you have 'some' sort of sounds like-"

"My uncle brought them back from Columbia. He's a broker."

"Oh. Okay. That's-"

"Did you know emeralds are supposed to have mystical powers?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. There are all sorts of myths associated with gems and crystals."

"It's not a myth." Jake raised his eyes, meeting Blair's more steadily than he ever had before, while his cheeks took on the glow typical of fair skinned red-heads.

Blair wasn't quite sure whether Jake was embarrassed or angry, or perhaps even a little of both. Whatever emotion had triggered the reaction, Blair was feeling increasingly unsettled. "Okay," he nodded. "Yes, you're right. A lot of people still believe there are certain mystical properties associated with them."

"Do you?"

"I don't discount it."

Jake's assertiveness of a moment before died in an instant. His gaze dropped to the floor. When he spoke again Blair could almost believe the student was reading words he'd found in the tiles. "Emeralds are said to be a friend to the seeker, assisting in deeper spiritual insight and introducing the higher self to the divinity within."

"That's interesting. Did you read that in-?"

"They're also valued by healers. They're said to act like a magnet, drawing life force into them."

"Jake, I'd-"

"I'll show you."

"What?"

"I'll show you - tomorrow."

With that the young man grabbed his books and hurried from the lecture hall, leaving Blair bewildered. He felt like he'd somehow missed half of the conversation. "Whew," he sighed softly and looked at the clock. At least he wouldn't be late meeting Jim.

*   *  *

2

Jake Connelly slipped into his new Inca-Gold Chrysler Prowler, a car with power and attitude, two traits Jake felt he could only possess when he was behind the wheel of this magnificent machine. It turned heads at every corner. Yet no one ever knew who was inside. He could hide away behind the narrow windows. He could let the car speak for him, let it tell people that he mattered - at least until he pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped outside. Then he was on his own.

He drove for half an hour through the kind of winds and turns that ignited his adrenaline, urging him faster and faster. It was too fast in the end. He arrived all too soon at the great iron gates of "Dracula's Castle," his own private name for the house that could never feel like a home to him.

Pulling into the long, curved drive in front of his parents' multi-million dollar white-pillared monstrosity made his stomach churn. He much preferred the small spaces of his own campus apartment to the great, arched halls here, halls with cold marble floors and priceless rare antiques that might as well be housed behind velvet ropes in a museum somewhere, for all the horror the maids displayed anytime he wandered near them. Even the garage housed untouchables, half a dozen cars that could never be driven, cars his father polished and pampered with more pride and attention than he'd ever given Jake.

Sucked into the vortex of the house's vampiric spell, Jake's thoughts roiled into a kind of rage. He slammed the car door and stomped up the wide stairs to the massive mahogany doors, punching his entry code into the keypad with more force than was advisable. Part of him wanted to hear alarms wailing, warning him away as an intruder. When the door benignly clicked open instead, he almost felt cheated. He would love nothing better than to argue with someone. It might as well be the police, since no one else was around. His parents were in London, or Vienna, or wherever their whims had taken them today. And his uncle was in the city selling gemstones, or whatever it was he did.

Jake had long ago decided Uncle Will was something more than a broker. Actually, he would be surprised if he were to learn the man was not a thief. After all, Will had stolen Jake's life from the moment he walked in the door all those years ago and forced out another relative, Aunt Sue. Jake's memories of Aunt Sue were dim, but he knew her as someone he could trust implicitly, a woman who'd been more of a mother to him than his real mom had ever been - a woman who used to serve him chocolate pudding that was so heavenly it must have been blessed by the gods themselves.

Yes, Jake would have loved a run-in with the police just then, especially since he had every right to be there. But the house was as empty and quiet as a mausoleum. Draconian, indeed. Jake settled for throwing his backpack into an empty corner and yelling his throat raw in the echo chamber that was the foyer. He could scream and yell all he wanted. No one would care. No one ever did. Even the maids had become pros at ignoring him. The only person who had come close to caring lately was Blair Sandburg, and Jake knew he was starting to lose that tenuous relationship as well.

The screaming helped, temporarily anyway. It gave Jake enough of a release to walk confidently to the library his uncle took over whenever Jake's father was out of town - which was most of the time. The door was locked, as he'd expected. It didn't matter. His uncle was as foolish as his father, thinking Jake too stupid to know how to break in. The stupidity really went the other way. The kinds of goons Uncle Will brought around weren't exactly college types. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. There had been plenty of times when Will ordered a particular goon named Kirby to keep Jake occupied. And good old Kirby had been known to teach Jake things he would never have learned in school.

In a few seconds the bolt clicked open.

Jake stepped through the doorway and quickly moved past the endless shelves of books no one ever read. Crossing to the mahogany desk, he pushed the dark green, leather chair aside and dropped to his knees. In one fluid movement, he opened the upper, right-hand drawer, pressed a small button inside, and swiveled to the section of raised panel wall beside him that had already begun to peel away, revealing the safe within.

The rest should be equally as easy. Jake had played the spy game on both his father and his uncle for years. Already grinning in anticipation, he turned the dial once to the right, twice to the left, and once more to the right, a satisfying click assuring him neither of the room's guardians had bothered changing the combination.

Jake breathed in the musty scents of polished wood and old paper as he reached for a familiar velvet lined box. His smile broadening from the thrill of the crime, he pulled the box forward and lifted the lid, finally drawing back the dark blue cloth meant to protect the precious gems within.

They were magnificent! He wasn't entirely sure of the total value, but he knew there was more than a million dollars worth of emeralds there at his fingertips. He could take them and run, start a whole new life for himself in Switzerland or Brazil, or some other faraway place. But no. That wasn't why he was there. He didn't care about money. He didn't care about exotic places. Those were the status symbols of his parents' life. Jake didn't want any part of it. Instead, he was determined to be anything they were not.

He grabbed a small handful, intending to take only what didn't spill from his fingers, just enough to make his point, to let Blair Sandburg know he wasn't a total loser. Yet when he spotted a boulder amidst the pebbles, he couldn't resist grabbing it as well. Yes, the missing boulder was more likely to be noticed. But maybe - just maybe - he could put it back before Uncle Will noticed anything was missing at all.

With more care than he'd shown thus far, Jake replaced the box, locked the safe, slid the panel back into place, closed the desk drawer and returned the chair to its original position. Then, standing back to study the scene for a moment, he decided to inch the chair back just a touch. Perfect! No one would ever know he'd been there.

He smiled and started toward the door - until a new thought inspired him.

Touching another hidden button, he watched as another section of wall slid away, this one the size of an ordinary door. When he stepped through, the wonders housed within caused him to hold his breath, as they always did. He couldn't help but feel as though he'd been granted a special honor for gaining entry among them. This secret closet didn't hold a cache of more gemstones. It was not a treasure chest of pirated proportions. No. This was better. It was a haven for herbal pharmaceuticals and ceremonial tools used by ancient peoples in their most sacred rituals, a repository for archeological finds that had never been reported to the governments responsible for them.

And it was the private stash of Jake's parents, thieves in their own right, hoarders of history.

So be it. Now Jake would make them the tools of his thieving heart - which was something he'd come to realize must be an inherited trait. He would use the wisdom of the ancients to steal his freedom from a lifetime of abandonment, to release himself from the clutches of this dark house.

Searching through a collection of herbs that would rival anything found in hippy heaven, Jake remembered the words Blair Sandburg had read earlier in class: ". . . shamans are . . . people who deal with the tears and holes we create in the net of life, the damage that we all cause in our search for survival. In a sense, all of us . . . are constantly wrecking the world . . . If we respond . . . by ignoring the spiritual debt we create just by living, then that debt will come back to bite us, hard."

Uncle Will had snagged the net of Jake's world long ago. By now that snag had grown into a vast, gaping hole. "Bite me," Jake said aloud to his absent uncle as he filled a small, leather, draw-string bag with an assortment of dried leaves.

"Shamans deal with problems that arise when we forget the relationship that exists between us and the other world that feeds us, or when, for whatever reason, we don't feed the other world in return."

Still thinking of Mr. Sandburg's lecture, Jake frantically scanned a wall filled with relics until he spotted a crudely carved, ritualistic dagger.

"With the Mayans, sacrifice isn't just about feeding a hungry god, or even about appeasing an angry one. It's about a mutual exchange between the worlds, or between the layers of this one."

Jake grinned like the child he'd once been and had almost forgotten as he tested the weight of the blade. It felt comfortable in his hand, like something that was designed for him alone. Everything was finally going to come together. He finally understood how to regain his balance. Blair Sandburg had given him the message. Jake's parents had given him the tools. Now it was his turn. There was a whole other world waiting for Jake Connelly, one that included laughter, love and the gods' own chocolate pudding.

*   *  *

3

 

Jim was in Simon's office when Blair arrived at the station. Someone else was there as well, a man wearing a charcoal suit. The stranger's dark hair was flecked with gray and his expression was one that reminded Blair of a politician on the losing side in the polls. He looked stiff and official. Whatever was going on beyond Simon's closed door, it looked like a meeting that would rank right up there with a tax audit. Blair was quite prepared to wait it out in the bullpen, going through some of the paperwork he'd promised to complete. Unfortunately, Jim had something else in mind for him. His partner caught his eye through the glass, and waved him in.

"Sandburg," Jim said as soon as Blair stepped through the door, "this is Special Agent John Marconin. He's from the FBI."

Blair offered his hand in greeting, "Hello."

"Agent Marconin," Simon added, "this is Blair Sandburg. He's a consultant to the department."

"A consultant, Captain Banks?" His crystal blue eyes seemed to look deep into Blair.

"Yes," Simon answered in synch with Jim's, "He's my partner."

"Well, which is it?"

"Both," Jim stated simply.

"Mr. Sandburg has worked closely with Detective Ellison for the past three years," Simon offered in explanation, "and has proved to be a valuable asset."

Blair's gratitude at Simon's evaluation was tempered by Agent Marconin's glare.

"Captain Banks," the agent's eyes were like ice, "while I can appreciate your seeking help where you may, I'm sure you can appreciate the sensitive nature of federal investigations."

"Special Agent Marconin," Simon answered, equally cold, "Mr. Sandburg has the appropriate clearance, and is a valued member of this team."

After a long moment under the scrutiny of Marconin's piercing eyes, Blair would not have regretted letting the agent have his way. He would be more than happy to go back to Jim's desk, and wasn't sure why he'd been called into the room in the first place. Ironically, he was actually starting to regret that Jake's interruption hadn't kept him longer. But the agent silently relented, returning to his seat and pulling a file from his briefcase.

"Sandburg," Jim started, "Marconin here says he has information about the John Doe we were called in on the other day."

Blair's interest was suddenly piqued. "I knew there was a Columbian connection." He smiled, satisfied in his belief that the agent's presence confirmed his theory about the small replica of an ancient relic found hanging from a chain around the man's neck.

Jim raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, silently saying, "Let's wait and see."

"Two days ago," Marconin said as he began to set a series of photographs down on the table, "the body of a middle aged Caucasian man was pulled from the river."

Recognizing the bloated and gruesome images, Blair found his interest giving way to nausea until he let his gaze move from the photos to his partner. He shared a tight smile with Jim as Marconin continued.

"Shot once in the head, execution style. Time of death was estimated at ten days prior. You have him listed in your files as a John Doe."

Jim looked at the agent. "I thought I just said that. But I suppose you know who he is."

"Brett Johnson, a junior partner of Driscoll, Incorporated."

Simon recognized the name. "The import-export business down on pier 29?"

Marconin nodded once.

"Why are the feds interested?" Jim asked the agent.

"A contact in Columbia found evidence suggesting Driscoll was smuggling emeralds into the US. The latest shipment was expected to arrive two weeks ago. The timing of Johnson's death is just a little too coincidental."

Blair was seeing yet another coincidence. "Emeralds?" he repeated softly. "They wouldn't by any chance be from the Muzo mine?"

Marconin glared suspiciously at him. Blair felt exposed even though he had nothing to hide. "They would," the agent said coldly.

"Dj vu."

Suddenly, Jim was interested too. "Sandburg?"

"I'm sure it's nothing. A student of mine mentioned today that he had some emeralds from the Muzo mine. That his uncle is a broker, and had just brought them back with him from Columbia."

"Does this student have a name?" the agent asked him.

Feeling as though he'd just betrayed Jake, Blair went into defensive mode. "Wait a minute, man. Whatever it is, he's not involved. He's just a university student. I don't think he's ever even left the country."

Ice-eyes was not satisfied. "Whether or not this student is involved is not your call, Mr. Sandburg, now is it?"

"Hey, back off will you?" For a moment, it was Jim's turn to run defense. Then he gave his full attention to his partner. "Sandburg, you're probably right. But you can't be so sure about his uncle. Can you give us his name?"

"No, sorry. I don't know. I do know he's supposed to be some kind of broker. I can find out, though. His name, I mean. We don't have class again until next week, but he said he'd-" Great, Blair. Now what? He said he'd what? Show you the emeralds tomorrow? That'll keep the feds away, now won't it. Blair sighed in defeat. "He said he'd see me tomorrow. I'll find out who his uncle is."

Jim's gaze lingered on Blair for a moment. "That's not gonna cut it for these guys, Chief. You might as well tell us the student's name, or they'll just put a tail on you."

"Come on, Jim. He's a student. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

"We're not saying he's guilty, just that he might have some information we need."

"Then let me find out."

"Are you or are you not a detective, Mr. Sandburg?" Agent Marconin intervened.

"Sandburg," Simon's loud interruption prevented Blair from arguing further, yet it was obvious Blair was not his intended target. The captain's eyes were locked onto Marconin as he spoke. "I will personally see to it that your student is not hounded or treated unjustly." He sighed softly, and turned to speak directly to Blair. "But Jim's right. If you don't tell us now, you might as well expect the feds to put you under the microscope, too."

"Great," Blair said softly. "Just great." He took a deep breath. "His name's Jake Connelly. His parents live up on Somerset, but they travel a lot. I think they're still out of the country, in Europe somewhere. Jake has mentioned his uncle a few times. Apparently he's staying at their place for a while. Jake has an apartment on campus."

"He'd be wise to avoid the house for a while," Jim advised.

"Yeah." Blair sighed. After the brief, bizarre interchange he'd had with Jake in the lecture hall, he had started to believe that his student was finally on the verge of opening his floodgates, that Jake might actually start speaking about something other than the weather. Now Blair had the sinking feeling he'd just supplied the cement bound to seal those gates tighter than ever.

* * *

Still high on the rush he'd experienced hours earlier at the expense of his uncle, Jake scrambled up five flights of stairs to his apartment, his thoughts far beyond the bland, gray walls of the stairwell. He followed the familiar path more by instinct than sight, paying more attention to the gems in his pocket and the song in his head, a fast-paced heavy-metal tune that hadn't quite played itself out before he'd turned off his car radio moments earlier. His world had just been expanded a hundred-fold. Life suddenly held more promise, more excitement than he'd ever imagined. Things were about to change drastically. Jake Connelly would be ignored no longer.

Reaching the fifth floor landing, he stopped briefly to perform a silent drum solo. His fists pounded harmlessly at the air until he brought his song to a dramatic end, one invisible drumstick rising triumphantly toward the ceiling. An imaginary audience roared for more as he rushed off stage and down the hall to the third door on the left where he quickly fit his key into the lock - only to find the door already open.

Jake's private concert hall evaporated around him. Had he forgotten to lock the door? It was possible. He'd done it before, generally after partying with his friends and barely making it home in time to collapse on - or near - his bed. Shrugging in careless acceptance, he stepped inside and immediately made it a point to lock the door behind him. He'd never had anything worth protecting before, never anything that wasn't completely replaceable. Even the Prowler was replaceable. But now he had the emeralds.

"Hello, Jake," the familiar, grating sound of his uncle's voice called to his back after he'd set the bolt in place.

Jake tensed, cursing silently. How the hell could the man have figured it out so quickly? He couldn't . . . could he? Jake might have taken his time getting here - he'd hoped to track down the guys and hang out for while. Yet there was no way Will could have detected the theft and beat Jake back. There had to be another reason for this visit. He let himself hold onto that hope.

"I don't remember giving you a key," Jake said calmly, trying to ignore the crescendo his heart had reached.

The room was in more of a mess than he'd left it. Never comfortable with confrontation, he quickly looked past the man to scan the new debris. CD's and books were scattered about the floor. Couch cushions had been tossed carelessly aside. Cupboards hung open in the tiny kitchenette. And beyond, through his bedroom door, he could see that his dresser drawers had been removed.

"I don't remember giving you one, either." His uncle's cold reply drew Jake's full attention back as effectively as a magnet.

Jake could feel the heavy beat of his pulse rising into his throat as he studied the man he'd grown accustomed to calling "uncle" though he'd never felt any allegiance to the title. The man was a stranger, even more so now. His round face seemed swollen somehow, and his white hair was in need of a trim, the thick waves threatening to spill into eyes that were the color of royalty - rich, blue and cunning in the way of kings. He was a man of power. And Jake had dared to attempt to steal a piece of it.

Jake forced himself to swallow and moved slowly to the sofa, suddenly desperate to sit down before his knees gave out. His eyes never left his uncle as he set one of the cushions back into place and sank gratefully into it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Will laughed, the corners of those cunning eyes crinkling into well furrowed trenches. He was always laughing. But this man's laugh was one that tended to push Jake away rather than pull him in. There was something cruel in the sound of it. "Come off it, Jake. You know you can't lie. If that face of yours got any redder it would explode. Your dad had the same affliction. Took him years to learn how to control it, and even then he wasn't as good at it as he thought."

Had?

Seeing Jake's confused reaction, Will replied with a soft, cold chuckle. "You haven't heard from him in a while, have you? Not since before their flight left Cascade about a month ago, I'd say. That's about right, isn't it?"

Jake's heart seemed to stop. He held his breath as his eyes asked the question he didn't dare voice.

Will chuckled again. "You are a bright lad, now aren't you?"

"What are you saying?" Jake demanded, struggling for breath through the fist that was closing around his throat.

"You already know, Jake. You're not stupid. And neither am I. You have something of mine. Now I'd suggest you give it to me before things get too complicated."

"You already make it sound complicated. What did you do to my parents?"

"Me, Jake? Oh, no. I may not have liked your father all that much, but I didn't kill him. The thing is, Jake, I can't control what someone else might do. And believe me, the people those stones belong to won't care who you are."

"I thought you said I had something of yours."

"You do. And something of theirs. I'm a broker, Jake. You know that. I get things for other people. Like I got those stones for someone else. Someone who's taken quite an interest in you all of a sudden. Can you imagine why that might be, Jake?"

"Are you going to tell me what you know about my parents or aren't you?"

"Come now, Jake. Don't act so concerned. I know you didn't like them much better than I did. But . . . they were your parents." Will paused, studying his nephew as though trying to determine exactly how much information to divulge. "You see, Jake," he continued finally, "your father wasn't a very good businessman. Customer confidentiality is critical, especially in our line of work. People invest in gemstones for good reason. They represent a secure and completely private form of wealth, not individually reported to any governmental agencies. Customers who want that kind of privacy have to be accommodated. Your dad suddenly decided that wasn't important anymore."

"What are you saying? A customer killed Dad?"

"I understand it was quick. One little bullet for each of them, right about here." He reached forward and put two fingers on the back of Jake's skull. Jake's entire scalp tingled in revulsion.

"The real shame," Will continued as he sat back in his chair, "is that it could be a long while before you can collect the inheritance. The ocean's an awfully big place, after all. But then again, if you don't wise up real quick, that ocean might swallow you right along with them."

Jake fought past the images in his head as his innocence came to the fore, spilling out words that proved his navet before he could try to hold them back. "What kind of customers do you have?"

"The kind who make it worth our while to be discrete," Will answered, unfazed by the childish question. "And the kind who like thieves about as much as they like informers." He rose and moved to stand in front of Jake, squeezing his nephew's shoulder with his left hand and holding his empty, right palm in front of Jake's face. "The stones, Jake?"

His heart racing, Jake tried to stand, but his uncle's grip tightened, forcing him back into his seat. He glimpsed movement from a shadowy figure in his peripheral vision, an anonymous presence hiding beyond his open bedroom door. The motion drew Will's attention as well. The older man turned slightly in response, a seemingly nervous reaction that revealed something dark and smooth inside his jacket. Jake was sure it was a gun.

One little bullet for each of them, right about here.

"Let's not make this any harder than it needs to be," Will softly threatened, dismissing the distraction.

Until that moment Jake might have allowed himself to disbelieve what had been said about his parents. Yet he sensed death in the hidden presence, as well as in the determined feel of his uncle's hand on his shoulder. He saw murder in the stance of the man before him. Jake knew then that his parents were dead. And for reasons he had yet to grasp, he was about to join them.

Acting more on instinct than conscious thought, Jake tensed and swung his fist into Will's groin. The grip on his shoulder loosened as the older man struggled to regain his balance. Jake took advantage of the moment. Squirming free, he drove upward into his uncle's chest, knocking Will to the ground.

Jake sprinted from the room as the bedroom's shadow gained substance. He did not turn to identify whose heavy footsteps pounded along behind him. He pushed himself faster, harder, relieved to hear those steps begin to recede but refusing to stop until he knew they were too far behind to see where he'd gone. Hours later he found himself on some nameless, empty street in the dark heart of Cascade, alone in the night, alienated as never before.

* * *

It was evening by the time Blair broke away from the growing investigation. They had already posted a stakeout at the Connelly estate, and even managed to dig up some information about the uncle, a man who went by the name of William Connelly. But the only thing unusual about his files was the general lack of information they contained. While there was nothing to justify any suspicions, there was also nothing to indicate he was simply a typical, self-employed businessman who logged an atypical amount of international frequent flyer miles.

It wasn't much, but it was enough information to make Blair feel at fault for having caused Connelly to become the center of the investigation in the first place.

With all the attention Jake's uncle was getting because of Jake's claim about having emeralds, Blair knew he couldn't wait for his student's planned game of show-and-tell. Blair wasn't even sure when or where Jake was expecting to find him tomorrow. And he was sure that by morning it would already be too late to give Jake any sort of warning at all. The feds would be all over the poor kid by then. Blair had some papers to pick up anyway. He might as well be the one tracking down Jake this time. Not only did he owe Jake an explanation, he also owed the student an apology. Oh, hey, by the way, thanks for finally opening up to me. I went ahead and told the feds your uncle might be involved in smuggling emeralds.

Blair pulled into the quiet parking lot and turned off his engine. Still trying to figure out what he was going to say, his thoughts were anything but focused as he grabbed the backpack on the seat beside him. Should he get the papers first, or try to find Jake? Was it even possible that a college student would be at his apartment so early on a Friday night? His mind clearly elsewhere, Blair didn't see the shadow that crossed his windshield. He was oblivious as it moved to stand just outside the driver's side door.

Reaching blindly for the handle, Blair cracked the door open. Only then did he notice his visitor. "Shit!"

Knowing he'd already made himself vulnerable, Blair didn't wait to see who it was. He grabbed the door and pulled. A small click told him something in the doorframe had only partially engaged. It would have to be enough. He punched down the lock and sank back into his seat. There was nothing else he could do. Swallowing hard, he gave his full attention to the figure on the other side of the glass.

Jake Connelly? Laughing softly at his own stupidity, Blair closed his eyes in relief and laid his head against the headrest. A moment later, he finally pushed the door open and stepped out, resting his arm casually on the window guard. "Hey, Jake. You scared me, man," he admitted.

But Jake did not share his good humor. He looked confused and more disheveled than usual.

"What's wrong, Jake?"

"Can we go somewhere and talk?" The younger man's eyes darted about. This time he seemed to be looking for something rather than looking away.

"Yeah, sure." Blair tried to follow Jake's line of sight, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. "How 'bout my office?"

Jake shook his head. "No. Off campus. Somewhere else."

Taking another look around, Blair half expected to find Marconin and a team of feds watching from some shiny black car parked nearby, but the street was pretty much deserted. "Look, Jake, if you think you're in some kind of trouble, I have to tell you-"

"No. You don't understand." Jake scanned the area again then stepped around the car door to stand directly beside Blair. Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he opened his fist to reveal a palm full of gems. They sparkled brilliantly, even in the poorly lit parking lot.

"Wow," Blair couldn't help but acknowledge. "Uh, Jake, you really shouldn't be carrying those around with you. Is that what's wrong? Do you think someone's going to rob you?"

"He killed them," Jake said. He seemed dazed.

"What?" Blair studied him. "Who? What's going on, Jake?"

"He killed them. It's just like the hero twins, just like I thought it might be."

"Who, Jake? What are you talking about?"

"He sacrificed them so he could be stronger. But he needs these, too."

Blair took a deep breath. Had Jake finally gone over the edge? "Look, Jake, why don't we. . ."

The sound of squealing tires stopped him mid-sentence. Blair looked up as an SUV effortlessly jumped the curb. He watched, dumbfounded, as it churned across the grass toward the parking lot. It was coming right at him.

Blair grabbed Jake and dove for the front seat, pulling the student down on top of him. He barely managed to drag his feet clear before the thundering monster roared past, smashing into his door with the deafening sound of metal grinding into metal and showering them both with the glass exploding from his window.

Seconds later, when the fragments stopped falling, Blair held his breath and listened to the silence. "Jake?" he whispered. The student's jacket was still clutched tightly his fists. "You okay?"

"I can't let him win."

"He won't, man." Blair didn't know what else to say. "He won't."

The continued silence prompted Blair to risk a look through his rear window. He grabbed the back of the seat and pulled himself up, squirming out from under Jake.

The SUV was turning around.

"Oh, man." Twisting back, he pushed Jake into the passenger's seat and took his own position at the wheel. His hands were shaking as he struggled to get his keys into the ignition. The approaching roar of the SUV's engine gave him more encouragement than he needed. "Come on, come on!" He shouted at the car until it answered with a rattling purr. "Yes!"

Without thinking, he shifted into drive, only to thud into a parking barrier.

"Oh, man," he said again, switching to reverse. But when he looked behind him he saw the SUV speeding away down the side road. Yes. It was moving away, not coming back. And there was another car following closely behind it. Some part of his brain that was still managing to function told him it must be the feds, that they had already posted a stakeout on Jake's apartment and were now chasing the bad guys. That thought gave him a much-needed sense of security.

He turned back to Jake just in time to see the younger man throw open the passenger door and jump outside.

"Jake?" Blair called out, pushing his shoulder against his own door. It was no use. The impact with the SUV had wedged it shut. He cursed softly, sliding across the seat and out the other side. But Jake was already halfway across campus. Blair would never catch up with him.

* * *

Even in the darkness, Jim's keen vision quickly zeroed in on the emeralds scattered amongst the gravel and bits of glass in the parking lot. "At least we shouldn't have any trouble getting that warrant now," he said as he dropped the gems into an evidence bag.

Blair closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. He'd hoped Jake's emeralds would have proved to be just a coincidence. Then again, it still might. The SUV could have been aimed at Blair instead of Jake. It could be related to some old case he'd helped Jim solve. This new thought didn't make him feel any better. He looked back at his partner. "We still don't know if those are the missing emeralds."

Jim gave him a quick, appreciative nod. "You're right. We don't. But we do have an apparent murder attempt and a missing student. That'll get us into both the house and his apartment." He glanced around one more time then rose and looked closely at Blair. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little wired."

His partner's gaze lingered a moment more before shifting to the corner of the parking lot. "You don't have any idea where Jake might have gone?"

Blair shrugged and shook his head. "I wish I did."

"Any close friends? Other relatives, besides the uncle?"

"None that I'm aware of. He tries to fit in with the crowd, but he's really more of a loner, you know?"

"Yeah," Jim replied softly, still looking away. "Look Chief, we're about done here. Why don't you grab your things and I'll drive you home."

Blair followed Jim's gaze. Agent Marconin was walking their way. "Thanks, but I'll take my own car."

"Sorry, Chief. The frame's bent." Jim pointed to the slightly askew front tire. "You're not driving that car until it's repaired - that is, if it can even be repaired."

"Great. Just . . . great." Defeated, Blair moved back around to the passenger door, opening it just as Marconin started hassling Jim.

"Looks like that consultant partner of yours can't even keep a teenager under wraps," Marconin started. "So far I'm not seeing this valuable asset you and your captain keep telling me about."

Blair clenched his jaw as he gathered up miscellaneous papers and started stuffing them into his backpack.

"Then you're not looking very hard," Jim answered. "You can thank Sandburg for these."

Encouraged by Jim's words, Blair looked up to see him showing Marconin the evidence bag. Marconin didn't say anything else, at least not within earshot. The two men had wandered too far away, summoned by one of the uniformed officers. When Jim finally came back, Blair was glad yet curious as to why Marconin stayed behind.

"Hey, Jim. What's up?"

"Jake's apartment's been trashed. In addition to trying to kill him, someone's going to a lot of trouble looking for something."

"The emeralds."

"Probably." Jim's gaze was distant.

"But that's not all, is it?"

"They found the SUV. It was abandoned about two miles from here. A black, Lincoln Navigator." Jim paused, briefly glancing down in a way that caused Blair's heart to skip a beat. It was a warning. Blair was not going to like whatever Jim had to say next. Finally his partner's eyes rose again to meet his. "It's registered to Jonathon Connelly. Jake's father."

"No way, Jim. Jake's father would not try to kill him."

"Are you sure?"

"Well . . no, but Jim, his father?"

Jim shrugged. "We'll find out. Could be the uncle."

"Like that's much better?"

"Come on, Chief. Let's go home."

* * *

By morning Jim had his warrant to search the Connelly estate, but it was already looking as though they'd find nothing. Their visit had apparently been expected. The entire estate was clean - too clean. Even the security cameras were of no use, the tapes having mysteriously disappeared.

Curiously, there was also no record of the family that was said to reside within those cold stone walls. There were no family photos anywhere in the palatial house, neither framed nor in albums. It was as though the Connelly's existed only on paper or in the imagination of one slightly whacked out college student - as though they weren't a real family at all.

Feeling an odd prickling along his skull, Jim suppressed a shudder and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck.

"Jim?" Leave it to Sandburg to pick up on even the slightest changes in his partner's mannerisms.

"Something seems wrong here. I think it's messing with my senses."

"Try to focus on one sense at a time," Sandburg advised. "Filter out everything else, see if you can zero in on what's different."

Jim tested the air, but detected nothing more than a particularly pungent mix of chemical cleansers. He rubbed his fingers together, trying to see if some of those cleansers might be affecting his sense of touch, but that didn't seem to be the case. With his hearing, he cued into electrical vibrations characteristic of the high tech locking systems and intercoms throughout the house.

He turned back to his partner and shook his head. "Maybe it's just that new Brazilian coffee of yours."

"I thought you said you liked it."

Jim smiled. "I do, Chief." He shook his head. "I just can't quite figure this out." Maybe it was nothing more than a strong feeling of emptiness he was experiencing. This house was empty of emotion, empty of the complex love-hate circus that normally identified family life. Jim had been to doctors' offices that offered more warmth than this home. It was little wonder Jake chose to live on campus.

Heading back into the library, he took another look at the open wall safe behind the huge mahogany desk.

"You think they were robbed?" Sandburg asked him.

Jim scanned the room again, his eyes briefly landing on the useless security camera above them. "Not likely," he answered, returning his attention to the safe. "Unless the thief had key codes and knew exactly where to look for this." He checked the edges of the wall, using his fingers to confirm what his eyes had already determined, feeling the subtle changes where smooth metal met highly polished wood. The safe would have been well concealed and easily overlooked by even the most sophisticated of thieves.

"In a hurry then?" Blair suggested. "Maybe Jake's uncle knew the police would be coming, and he ran out of time getting out of here."

"No. Everything else is too well organized. It's almost like a message of some kind." He turned up his senses, focusing on the minute details of the safe, tiny fragments of whatever had been held there, loose threads from the sleeve of whomever had removed its contents, even the remote, lingering scent of that person's cologne - anything at all that might prove useful.

"A message?" Blair considered aloud. "For whose benefit? Jake's? Ours?"

Jim was only partially listening. "Could be his way of telling us he has nothing to hide." Another odor had piggybacked itself onto the scent of cologne, something he could not quite identify. Whatever it was, he was sure it had caused his earlier discomfort as well. The tingling sensation that had started in his skull began traveling down his spine. "Or whatever he had of any real value is gone," he answered absently.

"What is it, Jim?"

He just shook his head, trying to focus on this new scent. It drew him to the wall opposite the desk. His hand rose to the smooth paneling. There was a familiar feel to the wood, similar to that of the wall beside the safe. "There's a door here," he announced, finding the edges he'd sought.

"What, like a secret door?" Blair smiled. "So how do we open it? Do we have to find the right book, like in those old movies?" Without waiting for a reply, he moved to the shelves beside him and began randomly pulling out books and pushing them back into place.

But Jim didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened, seeking out the slight hum of electricity. He turned his head slowly. There. Opening his eyes, he quickly zeroed in on a small, wood-toned button built into the molding on the bookcase near Sandburg. In three long strides he was beside his partner, who watched in keen interest as Jim pressed the button.

"Ah, you don't suppose Igor's in there, do you?" Sandburg quipped as the wall slid silently open. But his humor and nervousness were both short-lived when he saw the contents of the library's hidden room. "Oh man, Jim. Look at all these artifacts." His eyes practically glazing over at the treasures, he wandered deeper into the room examining each piece and completely oblivious to his partner's more cautious approach. "A Mayan ceremonial dagger. Egyptian canopic jars. This pottery over here looks like it's from Turkey, probably around twelfth century. Man, Jake wasn't kidding when he said his parents did a lot of traveling."

Jim looked at a wall of daggers, wondering what was odd about it - and wondering too just what was wrong with him. He felt strange, disoriented.

"Hey, here are some voodoo ritualistic pieces, probably from Haiti. Check these out."

Sandburg's voice was a strange echo in the depths of his mind. Jim blinked once. Twice. "There's one missing," he said distantly, realizing what it was about the wall that had been bothering him. He could see a faint pattern where dust had failed to accumulate, indicating that whatever had once resided there had recently been removed.

"What?" Sandburg didn't see it.

"A dagger. Missing." When the words seemed to lose themselves in his tongue, Jim pointed to the empty place on the wall.

"Jim?" Sandburg sounded concerned.

He tried to reply, but his tongue had grown too thick, too numb. The world began to tilt.

* * *

The sun was bright. Too bright. And those damn flashing lights. Would someone please turn them off? Jim raised his hand to shield his eyes and wondered whether he'd spoken his thoughts aloud or not.

"He's coming around."

Where was that voice coming from?

"Then he's gonna be okay, right?"

Sandburg? Hey, help me up, would you?

"Should be, but it wouldn't hurt to take him in for observation."

What? No. Just help me up. I'm fine.

"Do it."

Simon? Come on, aren't you listening to me? Jim cleared his throat, licked his lips, and realized he hadn't said a word. Damn.

"But Simon, don't you think he'd be better off at home? I mean, he'll probably just feel hung-over."

Way to go, Sandburg.

"Oh, is that right, Dr. Sandburg? And where did you say you got your medical degree from?"

Jim blinked his vision clear. He was outside. The air was pleasantly fresh. The sun was intense. He started to sit up, but a hand pressed against his chest to gently force him back. He brushed it away.

"I'm okay." Happy to finally hear the sound of his own voice, he gave the paramedic a brief, dismissive smile and turned his attention over to the tiny battle his boss and his partner were engaged in on the other side of the driveway.

"All I'm saying is most of those herbs in there are harmless."

"Sandburg?" Jim said softly. Too softly. Neither of them heard him.

"Harmless? Tell that to Jim."

"Captain?" Still too soft.

"No, really. Most of them are - when taken in moderation, of course. They're medicinal herbs. They've been used for centuries by different cultures all over the world. It's just, well, you know how sensitive Jim can be to these things. Look, you don't want some emergency room doctor pumping who knows what else into his system, do you?"

"No." Jim finally spoke loud enough to get their full attention. "No. You don't. Sandburg's right. I'll be fine. Just need to sleep it off."

"Hey, Jim," Sandburg said enthusiastically. "Welcome back."

Jim rubbed his temple. "Yeah, and just where was I, exactly?"

"That hidden room you and Sandburg found off the library-"

Too impatient to let Simon finish, Sandburg jumped in, "You remember the wall of daggers you were looking at? Well, on the opposite side are some shelves filled with apothecary jars. You wouldn't believe the stuff in there. . ."

Jim glared up at his partner, a warning gesture to get him back on track. It worked. Sandburg cleared his throat and continued with the abridged version. "Anyway, I think the variety of herbs in there just overloaded your senses."

"Yeah, well, I'd say that's pretty much an understatement." Jim caught Simon's eye. "What else did you find?"

"Not a thing. Whoever this Connelly is, he's thorough."

"Yeah," Jim acknowledged, not surprised by the news.

"Look Jim, we're clearing out of here. If you really think you're all right, I'll let Sandburg take you home." Simon swung around to face Jim's partner and roommate, "But I expect you to keep a tight eye on him. He so much as twinges, you get him straight to the hospital."

Sandburg nodded, "Of course. You don't think I'd let anything happen to him, do you?"

"No," the captain admitted. "I know, Sandburg. Just get him home and keep me updated."

"You got it."

Jim looked up appreciatively at his partner as Simon walked away. "Thanks."

"That's what partners are for." Sandburg held out his hand.

"What? Do you expect me to pay you?"

"I need your keys. I'm driving you home, remember?"

* * *

The walk back to Jim's truck was in slow motion. It was almost comical. Blair watched everyone else scurry about to vacate the premises, while he and Jim paced themselves like a couple of ninety-year-olds. He laughed to himself and was about to make a quip about the observation as he reached into his pocket for the keys, forgetting Jim hadn't handed them over yet. But his pocket wasn't entirely empty. What he found there wiped the smile from his face.

"Uh, Jim?" He glanced around, realizing they were the last ones to leave. Even Simon was gone.

"Yeah." Apparently oblivious to Blair's quickening heartbeat, the detective just said, "Here," and tossed him the keys.

"Thanks. But, uh, there's something else."

Jim was already in the truck with his head back and his eyes closed before he responded with an indifferent, "What?"

"This was in my pocket. Somehow Jake must have slipped it in there during all the confusion last night."

Jim blinked his eyes open and turned to look at the emerald in his partner's palm. It was larger than any of the others they'd found after Blair's run-in with the SUV. In fact, it was huge, almost the size of a silver dollar. "Withholding evidence?" he asked, but he didn't sound convincingly concerned.

"I didn't even know I had it."

"I know, Chief." He took the emerald into his left hand and began to study it closely.

"Ah, Jim? Be careful, man. Your senses are already on overload. It wouldn't be good to zone out just now."

Jim took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the gem. His hand dropped listlessly to the seat. "Okay," he said as he laid his head back and closed his eyes once more. "We'll call Simon about it when we get back to the loft. Take us home, will you, Chief?"

"Yeah, sure." This was not the Jim he was used to. Those herbs must have really done a job on him. Blair watched his partner a moment longer then turned the ignition. Rest, that's what Jim needed now - lots and lots of rest. Blair just had to make one, quick stop at his campus office before proceeding to the loft. Last night's diversion with Jake had prevented him from picking up his students' papers on Popol Vuh, and waiting for Jim to recharge would give him a great opportunity to grade them.

* * *

They weren't moving.

Jim tried to force his thoughts past the numb parts of his brain, but everything seemed fuzzy. He was sitting in his truck - that much he knew - a passenger this time. Sandburg had been driving, and Jim had allowed himself to slip into a light sleep - light enough to ease the spinning in his head while still keeping him aware of the truck's movement. The rhythm of the road, the stop-and-go pattern of city driving, had lulled him into a sense of security he hadn't even noticed until it was gone. Now he realized this latest wait was much longer than it should have been for any ordinary stoplight. As he became more alert, he realized also that the engine was off.

"Sandburg?" But when he turned to look at the driver, he found himself alone. What the. . .?

Concern shifted to irritation when he glanced out the window. They'd stopped at the university. Ah, hell. If Sandburg had to stop here, why couldn't he have just dropped Jim off at home, then come here on his own? Sighing in resignation, Jim realized it didn't matter. He was stuck with the situation. There was no way he could drive himself home when he could hardly even see straight. All he wanted to do was climb into bed and sleep off this horrendous high Mr. Connelly's hidden collection of herbs had forced upon him, but the only thing he could do was wait - and hope Sandburg didn't dally as long as he usually did.

"Come on, Sandburg," he said softly to no one but himself. "Just make it quick, will you?"

He tried to relax again, laying his head back and closing his eyes. But it was no use. The false sense of security he'd accepted while Blair was driving had deserted him in this unexpected stillness. Sitting there, alone, with his head feeling like it had been caught in some runaway centrifuge made him feel helpless. It was an unwelcome, unpleasant feeling.

Opening his eyes in exasperation, Jim tried to analyze his surroundings. To his left, the quad was crawling with students. Beyond that he could see Sandburg's office building. Jim scanned the entire expanse between his truck and the entrance, hoping to find some sign of his partner. But Sandburg was obviously still inside, and the struggle to focus felt like someone was drilling for oil in his eye sockets.

Blinking to release the pressure, Jim concentrated on his hearing instead and caught the sound of someone opening a window at a building up the street on the right. He tested his eyes again, following the sound until he recognized Jake's apartment building, which Marconin had pointed out to him the night before. A young woman on the fifth floor placed a vase in the windowsill. Jim found her movements calming. He let his gaze linger on her, grateful to feel the fire in his head begin to cool - until he realized what he must look like. Great going, Ellison. You're turning into a peeping tom.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for another try.

It was worthless. Where was Sandburg? Jim looked to the office building, momentarily relieved to see his partner emerge onto the commons. But there it was, one of those interruptions Sandburg was notorious for. Instead of coming right back to the truck, Sandburg was letting himself get hooked into conversation by a couple of young ladies. Damn it, Sandburg! This isn't the time to pick up dates.

Deciding enough was enough, Jim stepped out of the truck, but in his current altered state balance became an immediate problem. His hands came up on instinct. He grasped for the stability of the door, then noticed he still held Sandburg's emerald in his left hand. He couldn't let it go. Instead, he leaned his body into the truck and relied on his right hand to steady himself. As soon as gravity stopped pulling at him, he stared at the brilliant green gem. His thumb began stroking the smooth, polished surface. There was something mesmerizing, something absolutely captivating in its depths. It was spectacular. It was. . .

He heard a click. The sound pulled Jim back to reality as effectively as a hard slap in the face. It was familiar, too familiar. Someone had a rifle. And they were about to use it right here, in the middle of the city, in the middle of the university campus.

A rush of adrenaline brought him fully alert. His senses came back online, completely intact. Even his equilibrium was restored. He didn't question the change. He accepted it, zeroing in on the sound until his eyes came to the roof of Jake's apartment building. He saw the rifle with unmistakable clarity. Someone was about to be gunned down.

Instinctively grabbing his own weapon, his body already turning in advance of the sprint he was about to make, Jim let his gaze follow the line of the shot. Shit!

"Sandburg! Get down!" he yelled into the commons, his legs moving before he could give conscious thought to his destination. Somehow he had to reach Blair before the shooter did. It was impossible. He might be a sentinel, but he wasn't Superman. He wasn't going to outrun a speeding bullet.

He was still more than a dozen strides away when he watched his partner go down.

Jim turned to look up at the shooter, hatred and the need for vengeance screaming at him to chase down Sandburg's killer and rip the man to shreds. But another part of him, a stronger part, remained desperate for one last moment with his partner. In that instant, Jim Ellison was no longer a cop. He was a friend. No, more than a friend - a brother.

He knelt down beside Sandburg. Awed and horrified by the volume of blood already matting the younger man's hair, Jim's heart caught in his throat. "Chief?" he called out softly as he grasped Sandburg's head in his hands, desperate to stop the bleeding. But there was just too much.

"Someone call 911!" he heard himself say the words as though they came from a stranger. He wasn't even there. He couldn't be. No. None of this was real. He wouldn't let it be real. "Oh God, Chief."

He was too late.

* * *

Part 2

Jim pulled his hand away and stared at it. Sandburg's life coated his fingers like a glove. It was still warm.

"What?"

Though confused by the sound of the voice beside him, he ignored it. Nothing mattered but the blood on his hand.

"Hey, Jim. Look, man, I'm sorry I stopped here, but I really had to pick up those papers."

The sound of a door slamming shut drew Jim's eyes back to the driver's seat. The driver's seat?

Jim was back in his truck. How was that possible? He was no longer kneeling beside his fallen friend. And Blair . . . Sandburg was sitting beside him, smiling in that happy-go-lucky way of his.

"Hey, Jim, you okay?"

Jim looked at his hand. There was no blood on it now. All he saw was the emerald. His eyes moved questioningly to the window, scanning the scene around him, recognizing it, yet at the same time finding things wrong, misplaced.

He turned again to Sandburg - a very alive, very animated Blair Sandburg. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"Hey, Jim, you don't look so good, buddy."

"You were dead, Chief."

Blair's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Hey, come on! I know I promised to get you right home, but it was just a quick stop."

"You were shot. Dead." Jim lifted the emerald, letting it absorb his attention as he tried to puzzle out what he knew to be both real and unreal. "I had your blood on my hand. I could smell it. I could feel it. Hell, there was so much of it I could practically taste it."

"You're serious." The quiet acknowledgement came from a suddenly subdued Blair Sandburg.

"You know this isn't something I could joke about."

"Right." But the reflective mood wouldn't last. The wheels were already starting to turn in that professor-brain of his. Sandburg's expression slowly evolved from concern to curiosity. "Maybe it was some kind of . . . of vision. Or . . . or future sight." A familiar spark began to ignite in his eyes. "Jim, what if those herbs have introduced a new skill?"

Unbelievable! "Let's hope not," Jim answered in as stern a voice as he could muster.

"No, really." Sandburg's smiled in excitement. "Think about it. I mean, what if it's true? What if- Man, what if you can see the future?"

"Hey, Chief, aren't you forgetting something?"

"Jim, this is incredible. You have got to tell me everything. I mean, what happened, exactly? Don't leave anything out."

"Chief. You were dead. As in dead. You really want to believe I'm seeing the future?" Good going, Ellison. Now he's white as a ghost.

"Uh, no," Sandburg answered softly, obviously shaken. "I guess not."

"Look, it can't be the future, all right? If it was happening, it was happening now. In the present. You were flirting with a couple of students when a gray-haired sniper took a pot shot at you. But somehow instead of dying on the sidewalk, you got into the truck. So. . . "

"So?"

"Not the future."

Sandburg cocked his head and shrugged. "Okay, maybe not. But you've still got to tell me everything. I mean, something just happened here, right?"

Jim nodded, unable to deny that something had indeed happened, even if he really didn't know just what that something was.

"Then I'll help you figure it out." He started the engine. "We'll go over it twice. First with those herbs still in you, then again tomorrow, when you're back to normal."

Back to normal. Jim laid his head against the seat as the truck began to move forward. He wasn't sure he even knew what normal was anymore.

* * *

Blair sat sideways on the couch beside his partner, one leg curled up beneath him to adjust for the awkward position. The story Jim had told the day before was incredible. Blair was doubly anxious to hear today's "sober" version. He watched Jim settle deeper into the cushions and knew it was time to prompt the sentinel to look further inward.

"What about the guy with the gun?" Blair prompted.

"Rifle." Jim's eyes were closed to the rest of the world as he reached for memories of an event that had never happened. "A high-powered assault rifle. Government issue."

"So you think maybe the shooter is Special Forces?"

Jim tilted his head slightly, a living computer trying to access a new directory in his databanks. "Hard to say. Retired maybe. Gray hair. No, white. White hair. Gray jacket. Black gloves."

"Can you see his face?"

After taking a moment to examine the image in his mind, Jim shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"He was taking aim. His arm was up, his head down." Jim mimed the position as he spoke, holding an imaginary weapon.

"What about after? After he took the shot? Did you look at him again?"

"Yes," Jim said softly, his brows furrowed in confusion. "He's smiling at me. Laughing."

"Laughing?"

"He knows me."

"Do you know him?"

Jim shook his head slowly once more, until the creases in his forehead began to smooth. "Wait. . ."

"What do you see?"

"On the front of his jacket - the breast pocket - there's an emblem." He paused, concentrating on the design. "It's red. Red and black. A symbol. Like a face cut in half."

"Could you sketch it out?"

Opening his eyes, Jim blinked a few times to readjust to the light. "Yeah. Sure."

Blair quickly placed a notebook and pencil into Jim's hands, then watched as his partner drew the image. First came an outer circle and two smaller, inner circles where the eyes would go in a traditional smiley face. But instead of the single, curved line of a smile, Jim next drew a third, smaller circle, as though Mr. Smiley had stopped to say "oh." Lastly, Jim drew a vertical line to cut the face in half, marking the right half with cross hatches.

Blair couldn't help but stare at the result. He said nothing for several seconds. Then, simply, "Wow."

"You know what that is?"

"Um, yeah." Blair glanced at his partner before returning his attention to the paper. "You've never seen this before?"

"No, I haven't."

"Wow."

"You going to clue me in here, Chief?"

Clearly, Blair's odd reaction was not going unnoticed. Besides his increased heart rate, he must look nearly as pale as he had in the truck when Jim had caused him to contemplate his own death. "Sorry," he offered. "It's, um. . ." He had to force his eyes away from the drawing, giving himself over to Jim's full scrutiny. "It looks Mayan. A pictograph, or logograph actually, depicting 'way,' the idea of a companion spirit."

"Okay. So?" Jim sounded casual, unconcerned, but his eyes were penetrating.

"It's nothing really, in itself. It's just, well, those papers I was grading last night. . ."

Smiling nervously, Blair shook his head in an attempt to combat the image's seemingly magnetic pull. Still, his eyes continued to wander back to the paper. His voice grew softer as the pull seemed to intensify. "Jake Connelly's paper, actually. He came up with a really strange theory about Popol Vuh, the creation myth of the Mayans - about the hero twins, specifically."

"The hero twins?"

"Uh, yeah," Blair answered distractedly, barely aware his partner had spoken. "Basically gods that personified the two halves of what we are, the conscious and the subconscious."

It was no use. Unable to continue his private struggle, Blair's eyes locked onto the paper.

"Chief?"

Jim's voice called to him like a beacon, pulling Blair from the brink of his own little zone out. He tried to cover a noticeable shudder with a mirthless laugh. "I mean, come on, Jim. You've got to admit that's a pretty big coincidence."

"What?"

"The companion spirit? The hero twins?" How could Jim do that? Just sit there so still, not bothered by any of this, as though visions involving his partner's death were an everyday occurrence? Blair blew out a heavy breath. Jim still didn't know all the details.

"There are a lot of variations to the story," Blair started to explain, his hands dancing aimlessly through the air, "but in all of them the hero twins are put through a number of tests. One of them is killed, but is brought back to life in the end."

Closing his eyes briefly to analyze the logic of his own thoughts, Jake's words haunted him. He had to find the logic - or illogic - in them as well.

"Jake has this theory," he continued, "that maybe the twin isn't always brought back to life, that there could be multiple paths in this life, different for each of us, sort of along the lines of multiple universes. And for some people who seem to have no conscience, murderers and . . . well you get the idea, that for them, that twin, the subconscious, remains dead."

"You're talking philosophy here, Chief. What has that got to do with this?" Jim pointed to the paper.

Blair refused to let his eyes follow to the image drawn there. "Jake has suggested the hero twins might symbolize two halves of a whole, not only internally but externally as well. Yin and yang versus soul mates, spouses, siblings, especially twins, and other people who are strongly connected in one way or another."

"Connected?" Jim sought his eyes, caught them, held them. "Partners?"

Okay, it was a reasonable conclusion, not a quantum leap. So why did Blair feel let down rather than vindicated to find that Jim saw it too?

"Yeah." He looked away. "But something he said yesterday, this all just sort of . . . whew, man." Increasing anxiety made it impossible for Blair to remain still. He rose, shaking his hands as though they'd fallen asleep, and started to pace. "Last night, just before we got nailed by that Navigator, Jake said some strange things."

"What kind of things?"

Blair shook his head, still pacing. "He was nervous, scared maybe. He told me, 'He killed them.' Just like that, 'He killed them.'"

"Do you know who Jake was talking about?"

"No. But he compared it to the hero twins. Jake said something like, 'He sacrificed them to get stronger.' And then he said he needed the emeralds, too."

"You lost me."

"Okay, think about that yin and yang, that connection idea. What happens if you lose that?"

Jim shrugged. "You just said it a minute ago. It's like having no conscience."

Nodding enthusiastically, Blair dropped onto the couch next to Jim again. "Yes. That's what I'm talking about. Normally when we think about losing that kind of connection, we think of it in negative terms. But Jake's got this crazy idea that you can turn a loss like that into a positive."

"How so?"

He took a deep breath. "What happens if you lose your sense of conscience, of good versus evil?" Jumping up once more, Blair turned away from Jim rather than waiting for an answer, clearly never having intended to open the question to debate. "Not worrying about morals or ethics gives you a sort of empowerment, an invincibility. If one of the hero twins actually sacrificed the other in order to avoid having to deal with the consequences of conscience, that could in turn empower them to reach a new level of god-ship, freeing them to do whatever it takes to gain superiority."

Jim shook his head, confused. "I'm still not following you, Chief."

After another turn, Blair met Jim's eyes once more. "Jake's theorizing that the human race has the same capability to rise to the level of god-ship. The examples he used included psychics and others with supernatural capabilities - or what most would consider supernatural. Some experts in the field tend to call them 'ultranatural,' instead - people who have developed beyond the rest of the human race, or who might be considered to have reached a new or higher level of humanity." Blair's gaze said what his words did not. Like sentinels.

Jim was clearly not pleased with the implications. "Uh, huh. And people with ultranatural capabilities have become what they are by destroying their conscience?"

"No. Not at all." He started to pace again, recharged by his partner's misinterpretation. "They developed into what they are naturally, over a course of time, possibly over a course of generations. But what if they could speed up the process, reach an entirely new level by severing a key connection in their lives, in a sense sacrificing a part of themselves to become something new, something stronger?"

Once again he found himself facing his partner. He tried to hold his energy in check, keeping still long enough to say aloud what he'd avoided until now. "Look, Jim, it's not so much what he said as it is the implications to us, to your vision. A sentinel definitely falls into the category of a more highly developed human. The other half of a sentinel is his guide. Jake's theory could include a sentinel sacrificing his guide."

"And why would a sentinel do that?"

Locked onto Jim's steady gaze, Blair found comfort in his partner's cool, untroubled eyes. "He wouldn't." Blair sighed heavily, feeling his tension start to drain away. "I mean, it would make no sense unless he'd found a new guide or he thought he'd outgrown the need for a guide."

"Then it wouldn't really be a sacrifice, would it?"

Blair smiled in earnest this time. "Yeah. Look, I know it's crazy, but when I saw you draw that symbol, and I remembered what Jake said yesterday about a sacrifice and the emeralds . . . it's like this all fit together in a creepy sort of way. I mean, the symbol, two halves or a companion spirit could symbolize the two of us. It's a Mayan symbol. Jake was talking about a Mayan mythos, albeit one that probably originated even earlier, with the Olmecs, but. . ."

His smile faded, the momentary relief from Jim's words once again giving over to the unease he'd found from Jake's. He shrugged helplessly. "I just got this weird feeling, you know? I mean, what if I'm supposed to be some sort of sacrifice to help you reach a new level?"

Jim finally rose, crossing the distance to his partner to place himself directly in Blair's path. "Okay, Sandburg. First of all, I wasn't the one doing the shooting in that vision, or whatever it was. Second, I am not looking to reach new levels, and I'm definitely not willing to make sacrifices to get there. But the real bottom line is we already decided whatever it was that happened yesterday had nothing to do with seeing the future."

"I know all that, but. . ."

"But what? Come on, Sandburg. You know that's-"

It was Blair's turn to interrupt Jim. He jumped in with flailing hands as though he was an orchestra conductor trying to get his partner to understand his interpretation of the musical score. "Psychics see things happen in their minds all the time, but they rarely see it with any real clarity. They see settings and events, but not necessarily in the right order. Things get jumbled up. The shooting could be something that might happen, but it doesn't necessarily have to happen at the campus. You saw an event in the setting you were physically in at the time, not necessarily in the setting the event is supposed to happen in. And the shooter could have been an extension of your own inner-"

"So there's some white-haired old man living inside me? I'm sorry, but you're way off on this one, Sandburg. You seem to be forgetting I'm not psychic, and-"

"Sure, you haven't been in the past. That doesn't mean you're not gaining psychic capabilities. I mean, next level and all that."

Jim nodded doubtfully. "Uh-huh. Then in this world according to Jake, that would mean I'd need to make a sacrifice, right?"

After giving a hesitant nod, Blair answered with a soft, "Yeah."

"And a sacrifice by definition is something someone's willingly decided to give up, right?"

Another brief nod.

"Well, I'm not willing to let you get shot. Got it, Chief?"

Blair smiled reflexively. "Got it," he replied with a soft chuckle. But he didn't get it, not really. Sure, he knew Jim would never willingly let him die. But what if there was a piece to this whole puzzle they hadn't found yet, a piece that might somehow cause Jim to make a decision he wouldn't normally consider?

He was contemplating whether or not he should present this new argument when the phone rang, and by the time Jim hung up the receiver, the disappointed look on his face cleared any argument right out of Blair's mind.

"Jake's parents," Jim announced. "Their car was just fished out of the bay. They're dead."

* * *

Avoiding Jim's cold stare, agent Marconin took a sip of coffee and set the mug carefully back on the conference table. "Twenty years ago, two federal agents were murdered in Detroit. Divers found their bodies in the trunk of a car at the bottom of the Detroit River. Each had been shot once in the back of the head."

Simon's interest was piqued. "Like the Connelly's?"

Jim was more curious about the other side of Marconin's story. "Are you telling us you think that same killer is now in Cascade, twenty years later?"

Rather than directly addressing either question, Marconin continued his narration. "The principal murder suspect in Detroit was a Raymond Brooks." He tossed an 8-by-10 photo on the table, showing an average-looking, dark-haired man wearing sunglasses and a dark suit.

Jim studied the picture. There was something familiar about the man. He knew him. He was sure he knew him. Yet he could not pinpoint how.

"Brooks was also linked to a money laundering scheme with ties to the IRA," Marconin continued. "After the Russians left in '89, he brokered emeralds from one of Afghanistan's finest mines on behalf of some very high level terrorist figures."

"Emeralds?" Jim did not like the similarities to his current case. He scrutinized Marconin again, surprised to see the man's expression changing. It was growing more accepting, less guarded.

"This is a recent surveillance photo of William Connelly," the agent offered next.

Jim stiffened. William Connelly was the white-haired man in his vision. He was also the man in the photograph from Detroit, grown twenty years older.

Sandburg was in danger. Although his link to Jake - and by extension to William Connelly - was purely coincidental, that wouldn't prevent him from becoming a target. Jim's vision seemed to make that possibility all the more probable. He fought back the urgent need to warn Sandburg - hell, to go back to the loft, get Blair and force his partner to stay close by his side every second so he could watch over him. Jim hated that Sandburg was already too involved in this intricate spider's web, spun into it through the innocent workings of a lonely student with an unfortunate family tree. Jim was not about to let that web weave itself into becoming his partner's tomb.

No. Jim blinked away that image. Sandburg had mentioned a sacrifice. That should at least give Jim some amount of control. Besides, it was just a vision, both nightmarish and unreal.

He forced himself back to the moment, analyzing the photo of Connelly. The broker was in short sleeves despite the current autumn chill. And a woman in the background was wearing a swim-suit. "Recent?" Jim said doubtfully. "Looks to me like you were watching this guy long before that importer was killed." A new thought emerged. Jim looked at Marconin. "Or was Johnson an importer?"

The agent sighed, relaxing what remained of his earlier tension in what might be seen as a show of defeat, perhaps even sorrow. "Brett Johnson was one of ours."

And obviously a friend of Marconin's. Jim finally started to see the agent as human - more, as a cop. Johnson might well have been Marconin's partner. The thought of losing Sandburg came back with painful clarity. "I'm sorry," he offered in earnest. Yet Marconin still owed them some important details. "Look, we need to know what's going on here, so neither of us loses any more partners."

Marconin met his eyes and gave a brief nod, but Jim wasn't willing to wait for the story to unravel itself. He was anxious to hear one answer in particular. "Just how did Raymond Brooks become William Connelly?"

The agent glanced at the photos. "Your partner's student, Jake Connelly?"

Jim turned to Captain Banks, raising his eyebrows in surprise at hearing Sandburg referred to respectfully as his partner rather than as the consultant who shouldn't be involved.

"His father was counter-intelligence," Marconin continued.

"CIA?" Now there was another, interesting puzzle piece, and one Jim did not like at all.

"Jonathon Connelly spent his career involving himself with Brooks' organization," the agent continued, seemingly ignoring Jim's question, but actually answering it by default. "Apparently, part of his cover included giving Brooks a new identity as his own brother. His objective was never to get Brooks. They were more interested in Brooks' customers."

"So he invented an uncle for Jake?" Simon asked in mild disgust.

"He was counter-intelligence," Marconin repeated. "The line between work and family can become pretty blurred."

Jim knew that was true. He didn't like it, yet he couldn't argue it either. "So what happened to change the situation?"

"Brooks has apparently landed his biggest, most notorious customer to date." The agent paused to draw in the full attention of his listeners. "We need to find this customer."

Jim was skeptical. "Are you trying to tell us you don't know who it is?"

"We have no proof."

"But you know who it is?"

"We have no proof. Your partner introducing that link to the emeralds is giving us a great opportunity to get the evidence we need."

Simon nodded. "Okay, fair enough. You can work on identifying his customer. Meanwhile, the Cascade PD has three murders to solve, and sufficient evidence to bring in this William Connelly or Raymond Brooks or whoever he is as a prime suspect."

"No, sir," Marconin stated casually. "You can't do that."

"Yes, I can, and I will."

The agent held Simon's gaze in a cold, unshakable stare. "No. We need him on the street. We need him to lead us to that customer."

Simon was not intimidated. "I already have three dead bodies on my hands. I am not going to sit around and watch that tally rise. You leave that man on the street and I guarantee you we'll end up with one dead student, and who knows how many others."

One dead student, and one dead consultant to the police department, Jim corrected in his mind. He saw the bloody hands of his vision and had to shake his head to vanquish the thought of Sandburg's death. Simon was right. If they didn't get Brooks, Sandburg would be a part of that rising tally. I'm not psychic, he had argued when his partner had talked about reaching new levels. Yet somehow he had seen the future. He knew that now with terrifying certainty.

"Captain Banks," Marconin's voice brought Jim back to the moment. "If I have to I will make sure each of those cases is pulled out of your hands. At this point, I am involving you as a political courtesy, nothing more. Brooks has to remain free. I assure you, the customer is a far bigger fish with much sharper teeth."

Jim's blood froze. "What exactly are you saying?"

"What I am saying, gentlemen, is that three dead bodies will be nothing compared to what might happen if we don't get Brooks' customer."

"Sacrifice." Jim could hear Sandburg say the word over and over in his brain. "I just got this weird feeling, you know? I mean, what if I'm supposed to be some sort of sacrifice to help you reach a new level" . . . But we're not talking about reaching new levels now, are we Chief?

Brooks had been involved with a terrorist organization capable of planting bombs, capable of letting innocent victims die, considering them casualties to a cause. Yet whomever Brooks was working with now was bigger than that - a far bigger fish with much sharper teeth. What was Marconin talking about here? Another terrorist group, a deadly organization with an appetite for blood?

". . . What if I'm supposed to be some sort of sacrifice?"

A sacrifice to what? Was Jim supposed to turn away from Connelly and let the man kill his partner in order to let the feds get someone else, someone who might kill even more innocent victims who by sheer coincidence found themselves sucked into this emerald-colored web?

Jim's vision came back with haunting clarity. He remembered turning away from Connelly after the fatal shot had been fired. He remembered the man laughing, clearly knowing he would go free, knowing Jim would not chase him down. Clenching his teeth hard, Jim Ellison determined he was not going to let that happen. He'd get Connelly, all right. And he'd do so before that shot, not after.

* * *

Blair sat cross-legged on the couch as he reviewed his notes about Jim's vision. He still had papers to grade. They were stacked up on the cushion beside him. But thoughts of the vision kept pulling him away from his work and back to this new mystery. Was Jim becoming psychic? Was he gaining that illusive sixth sense? Excitement warred with fear, making it impossible for Blair to think about anything else. He couldn't help but contemplate the implications this all had to his own well-being. Yet if Jim truly was becoming psychic, that added a whole new level to their work together and a whole new dimension to Blair's studies. Of course, if the vision were true and Blair was essentially marked for death, those studies would end up in someone else's hands - if Jim didn't clam up and try to go it alone. No, Jim, that would be a mistake, a huge mistake. Every sentinel needs a guide.

If he were to die, who would Jim accept as a guide? Blair started to think of the most likely candidates currently at the university, as though he were considering hiring someone for the job - until he realized he was lining up interviews to fill a position soon to be vacated by death, his death.

"Who are you kidding?" he whispered to himself. Fear was definitely winning this latest battle. "Okay, not the future. Not the future. Just a puzzle we have to solve." Blair took a deep breath, exhaling slowly until his lungs felt empty, and then repeated the calming exercise.

Unfortunately, he did not feel any calmer. He started to wonder whether he should try to reach Charlie Springer again, Naomi's psychic friend. But he knew Charlie was out of the country, pitching his latest book overseas.

"So why don't you call me, huh?" Blair asked sarcastically, as though the psychic might hear him. "If you're really the expert we all thought you were, you should know I need to talk to you." But a glance at Charlie's book on the table in front of him reminded Blair he was being unfair. The man had proved his capabilities, even to the ever doubtful Jim. "Sorry, Charlie." The image of an old TV commercial featuring a cartoon tuna briefly swam into his thoughts, and he chuckled softly to himself. "Sorry Charlie. Cute."

But he was just letting himself get sidetracked again. He needed to focus.

He tried another cleansing breath. "It's just a puzzle." Closing his eyes, he repeated the words as though it were a mantra. "Just a puzzle. Just a puzzle." After all, the things in Jim's vision could be symbols, not actual events.

"So just think of the images, and try to match them to something they might symbolize." Blair's thoughts instantly went to the blood Jim had described drenching his hair. It wasn't the best place to start, but he couldn't avoid it. The image was certainly the most important to Blair. He tried another repetition of the mantra to combat the new onset of nerves - "just a puzzle, just a puzzle" - then blew out a rush of air. "Not blood then, just red. Think red. Red hair . . . Jake."

Blair opened his eyes. Jake. He looked at the logograph Jim had drawn, and still thought of red hair, and still thought of Jake. "Wow," he said aloud. Then he shook his head. "That's great, but I have no idea what it's supposed to mean."

A knock on the door made him jump. "Just a minute," he shouted, climbing out from under the papers in his lap. The knocking continued as he got to his feet, and grew increasingly louder and more persistent with each step he took. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Blair said more softly, making no real attempt to be heard. "Just hold on, I'm coming."

By the time he got to the door, his visitor's staccato beat began to unnerve him. He put one hand to the knob, the other to the chain, and hesitated. Leaning into the thick wood, he asked, "Who's there?"

The knocking stopped, but the visitor didn't respond right away. Blair felt his anxiety returning, worse than before. He glanced at the phone and wondered whether he should call Jim. But what would he say? Someone's here, but I don't know who it is and I'm afraid to answer the door. Yeah, right. There's a big emergency. It would probably end up being package delivery or something. So, if it was a package, they could just leave whatever it was on the landing, right? Who said Blair actually had to answer the door, anyway? He was about to stick by that scenario when a frightened voice called to him from the other side.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

"Jake? Is that you?"

"Please, you've gotta help me."

Blair hurried through the locks and opened the door to find a stranger, dressed entirely in black leather, the face masked by a black helmet. "Jake?"

When one gloved hand was raised to push up the face-plate, Blair finally let out the breath he'd been holding, grateful to see the familiar features he'd expected. "What's with the. . .?" He indicated Jake's outfit with a quick sweep of his hand.

"Please, Mr. Sandburg, you have to come with me. You have to help me."

"Okay Jake, just relax. Calm down, okay? Come on inside, and I'll call Jim. You'll be safe here."

"No, no, no. Not here. He's watching. No, you have to come with me. You have to come."

"Where, Jake?"

"Just come."

The kid was terrified. There was no way Blair could refuse him. If he did, Jake would just run off again, and who knows what might happen then. Jake's parents were dead. He might well end up that way, too. Blair couldn't just stand aside and let that happen.

"Okay, just calm down. Give me a minute to leave a note for-"

"No. There's no time. He's watching. You've got to come now." Jake replaced the shield over his face and turned to leave.

"Jake?" Blair called to his retreating back. "Hey! Just wait, okay? I'll be right-"

Jake never slowed.

Blair hesitated long enough to slam his hand against the door jamb in frustration before he grabbed his jacket off the hook beside him and bolted after the student. There was no time to worry about locking the door.

* * *

Jim needed to take another look at Connelly's emeralds. Part of him insisted he might find some new clue hidden within the crystal depths - yet another part secretly wanted to experience another vision, one that might help explain the first one. There was a problem, however. The emeralds were no longer in the evidence room. They were gone, released into the custody of one Kirby Allen, an employee of William Connelly.

Infuriated, he marched into Simon's office with no regard for protocol. "Since when do we release evidence before we've even solved the crime?"

"Well, Jim, why don't you come in, then?" the captain replied sarcastically, barely glancing up from the papers he'd been reviewing.

"I'm sorry, sir. But this is insane. The emeralds are gone."

"I know. We couldn't keep them any longer."

"Why not?"

"Because the feds made it loud and clear those gems could not be linked to a crime."

"They can't do that, sir."

"They did. Their gone, Jim. I'm sorry."

Something about Simon's reply made Jim question his captain's full sincerity. "All of them?"

Simon smiled up at the detective. "Not quite all." He removed an evidence bag from a drawer and placed in on his desk. "There is one that hasn't been fully checked in yet."

Jim sighed, relieved to see the rock he and Blair had delayed turning in - the one he'd held in his hand during the vision. "Thank you, sir."

But any attempt he might have made to analyze it was interrupted when Marconin barged in much as Jim had a moment before.

"Why do I even bother with having a door?" Simon complained.

Marconin ignored the remark. "We have a problem," he announced gravely. "We've got two agents down."

Captain Banks stiffened in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear that. But how, exactly, does it affect the Cascade PD?"

Marconin looked to Jim. "They were watching your partner when they were hit."

* * *

Blair jumped off the back of Jake's motorcycle as soon as it came to a full stop. "Are you crazy?" he yelled as he ripped off the extra helmet the student had given him. "You could've gotten us both killed." At least three red lights and countless hairpin turns later, he still couldn't believe they'd made it this far. West Oaks Mall was halfway across town. And how they'd managed to avoid gluing themselves to the front grill of that last bus was nothing less than a miracle.

But Jake wasn't fazed. He didn't even seem to notice Blair was with him. All of his attention was given to opening the trunk of the old Dodge Omni he'd parked beside.

"What's gotten into you, man?"

Jake pulled out a brown grocery bag and slammed the trunk lid shut.

"Come on, Jake. Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Not now. He's coming."

"Who's coming?"

Having already replaced his leather jacket with a plaid, flannel shirt, Jake started unzipping his pants.

"Jake?"

He upended the bag, grabbing the pair of jeans that fell out and letting the wind take the paper.

Blair wasn't sure whether he should be more amazed at the dexterity Jake displayed as he balanced himself to change into the jeans, or at the transformation he was watching take place. Practically in the blink of an eye, the student re-emerged and the black-clad motorcyclist became nothing more than an empty husk on the back seat of the Omni.

"Get in," Jake demanded as he took the driver's seat.

"No, Jake. You have to tell me what's going on first."

"It's like that shaman said," Jake turned the ignition and the old car sputtered to life. "I have to pay a spiritual debt."

"What?"

Although the car was already rolling slowly out of the parking space, Jake reached across the seat and pushed the passenger door open. "Get in."

"I told you no, man. Come on. You've got to tell me what's going on."

Finally Jake seemed to listen. He shifted into park and leaned his head against the seat. "If I don't take care of him first, he's going to kill me."

"What? No, Jake. I told you, Jim's a detective. He can help you."

"No." Jake sighed. "No one can help me now but you."

"I'm your teacher, Jake. I'm not a cop."

Emerald eyes gazed out at Blair. "I don't need a cop. I need a shaman."

What? Blair shouted mutely to himself. What makes you think I'm a shaman? Or do you just think I can help you find one? Yet he had no idea what to say aloud. He stood in startled silence for a long moment, staring into Jake's searching eyes, looking for even the smallest glimmer of rationality. What he saw instead was absolute desperation. "Oh, man. I don't believe I'm doing this," he muttered as he slipped inside.

* * *

Jim Ellison stepped through the door of his loft to find a team of federal agents already performing a full sweep.

"No sign of forced entry," a woman reported to Marconin, who followed Jim inside. "The door was unlocked. No evidence of a struggle."

Jim had to agree. He was relieved to see the state of his home revealed none of the usual signs of a crime scene, aside from his partner's tendency to ignore house rules and leave his books and papers scattered about wherever he wanted. But where was his partner? "The door was unlocked?"

The woman looked to Marconin before responding. At his nod she gave a full accounting. "It wasn't even closed all the way. The latch hadn't quite cleared the door jamb."

"Sandburg wouldn't do that," he said softly.

"Maybe he was in a hurry," Simon offered.

"His car's still parked outside; his keys are here. No, if he was in a hurry. . ." Jim left the statement unfinished as he focused on something new.

"Jim?"

"Do you smell that?"

"What? I don't smell anything."

"It smells like. . ." He tested the air a few times. "That hidden room at the Connelly estate."

"Should we get you out of here?"

"No, I'm fine. It's not that strong. Just a faint-" He shook his head. "I don't know. It could be one of the herbs, but there were too many. I can't pinpoint it."

"You think Brooks was here?"

Jim turned to Marconin.

"I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption," the agent offered. "The hit on our guys outside just about guarantees it."

"Why were they watching Sandburg, anyway?" Jim asked coldly.

"They weren't watching your partner. They were watching for the Connelly kid. How many places could he go? He obviously felt some sort of connection with Sandburg. He was bound to show up here, sooner or later."

He obviously felt some sort of connection with Sandburg. A connection? Jim was reminded of Blair's explanation about twin heroes, or whatever it was. His guide had described a connection, like siblings or partners. Could he add student and mentor to that list? And wasn't it Jake who had come up with that wild theory Sandburg had gotten so creeped out over, the thing about sacrificing someone you have a connection with? Could that whole vision thing have meant it was Jake who was supposed to do a sacrifice after all, and not Jim?

No. He was jumping to conclusions - bizarre, unthinkable conclusions. Stick with the facts, Jim reminded himself. Stay focused on the real world. He gave his attention back to Marconin. "Jake was here too, wasn't he?"

The agent sighed. "Again, it's just a guess. I'd say the kid showed up, just like we'd expected. But I'd also say Brooks had expected him too."

"But Brooks took out your agents so there was no one here to interfere."

Marconin nodded. "It makes sense."

Jim's eyes never left Marconin's. "And it makes sense that Sandburg and Jake are probably both in Brooks' hands now, doesn't it? It makes sense only because you wouldn't let us put that man in jail where he belongs."

"Wait, Jim," Simon interrupted. "It is possible Sandburg and the kid made it out before Brooks got to them. That could explain the rush to leave, and the door being unlocked."

"But why hasn't he tried to get in touch with us?"

* * *

Blair struggled up another flight of stairs. He'd given up trying to get answers out of Jake, and was left to simply following wherever the student might lead. It was unnerving and downright exhausting now that they'd scrambled up more flights than he could count in an abandoned building that had probably been condemned years ago - although any signs that might have once been posted were long gone. It was a forgotten building, by the city as well as by the people. So what did it have to do with Jake?

Although the stairs remained sturdy beneath Blair's feet, the railing was broken, and in several places it was missing altogether. He didn't dare look down. Even the slightest bout with vertigo could sign his death warrant. If he lost his balance, he would have nothing reliable to wrap his knuckles around to keep himself from falling. Yet there was another concern besides vertigo. Things scurried in Blair's peripheral vision, rats probably. He tried to stay alert, but he couldn't help jumping in surprise at each new sighting. His only real option was to stay as close to the crumbling, inner wall as possible.

After they rounded another landing, Blair had to stop to catch his breath. "Jake!" he panted. "Come on, man! I wasn't exactly prepared for a marathon today."

But the student kept climbing.

Blair shook his head and noticed a number still faintly showing through the chipped paint: 12. They'd climbed twelve floors. Oh man. What he wouldn't do for a working elevator, though he wasn't much of a fan of those these days either.

Jake led him up another two flights before finally slowing his pace. At the last few steps leading up to the fifteenth landing, the student barely moved. Each step became exaggerated. Blair noticed Jake's hand curl tenderly around the rail. When he finally let go, it was only to reach up to stroke the rotted, splintered door frame.

"When I was little, my mom used to take me here," he said softly. "There was a woman . . . Aunt Sue." He flashed Blair a quick smile before turning his attention back to what remained of the first apartment on the right. "She wasn't really my aunt. I don't really know who she was. My parents would never tell me. But I'd swear she was an angel. She gave me cookies and presents, and she always smiled. No matter what, she always smiled." Jake closed his eyes. "I can still see that smile. But her face. . ." He shook his head, as though confused. "It gets fuzzy sometimes. I've never had a picture of her."

He stepped across the empty threshold and turned a slow circle, examining the broken, dark, deserted shell of someone else's long ago home. "Aunt Sue," he said again. "She used to make me chocolate pudding. I swear I can still smell it cooking." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I never had the patience to let it cool like she wanted, and she always gave in. She let me eat it while it was still warm and runny. You can't get pudding like that from the store."

Forgetting his own discomfort, Blair was stunned to find Jake finally telling him something that had real meaning. Yet this wasn't exactly the time for childhood reminiscing. Jake had to have brought him here for something more than a flashback to better days. "What happened to her?" Blair asked softly, hoping to lead Jake to the real answers he needed.

"Uncle Will," Jake answered coldly. "One day Uncle Will showed up, and we never went to see Aunt Sue again. Just like that. Poof. I'm introduced to an uncle I'd never even heard of before, and it's like Aunt Sue never existed. I finally came back on my own when I was about twelve, but there was a black guy at the door, and all this strange furniture I didn't recognize. It smelled like stale cigars. Like there never even was an Aunt Sue."

"Maybe it wasn't the right apartment. If you were that young, a lot of buildings could look the same."

"This was the building. I knew it then, even through the cigar smoke. And I know it now, even like this. It's the same."

"Memories are strange sometimes, Jake. We can't always rely on them. It's not unusual for an adult to remember things from their childhood that never happened. Or what we remember isn't exactly how it happened. I mean, I remember-"

"No! It was real. She was real." Jake's face bloomed with color and his bright eyes narrowed into dark slits.

"Okay, Jake, just calm down, all right? You had an Aunt Sue. I believe you. But what has that got to do with what's going on right now? Your uncle, the run-in at school, the emeralds . . . You've gotta talk to me, man. Why'd you bring me here?"

Blair watched as Jake's red cheeks paled and the lines in his brow smoothed back into tender youthfulness. It was yet another transformation from stranger to student on a day when Blair was no longer sure exactly who Jake Connelly might be.

"Rituals work best in sacred places," Jake answered softly. "This is the most sacred place I have ever known."

* * *

Jim leaned across the table in Simon's office to confront Agent Marconin. "Are you going to tell us whatever it is you're holding back? So far we've got the FBI, the CIA, at least four dead agents and a murder suspect you won't let us arrest. And if that weren't enough, now you've dragged me, personally, into this little side-show of yours by involving my partner. But you know what really burns me up? I'd lay odds you know exactly where he is."

"I wouldn't play those odds if I were you."

Jim pushed away and chuckled sardonically. "Yeah." He nodded in feigned acquiescence as he sat down again. "Of course you wouldn't."

An instant later he leaned forward, pounding hard on the table between them and shouting, "Half the population in the city is probably made up of federal agents by now, from who knows how many different agencies."

Outside in the Bullpen, Simon glanced over his shoulder at the outburst. Sighing, he excused himself from the dark-suited man in front of him and stepped back into his office. "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

Jim ignored him, his eyes boring into Marconin's cold glare. The detective raised his finger accusingly, and lowered his tone to fight ice with ice. "And you're telling me, out of all those men and women, none of them can find one nineteen-year-old college student and his teacher?"

The agent raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Teacher? What happened to partner? Or, valuable member of your team? I would expect someone with those credentials to be able to elude capture for at least a short while."

Now it was Jim's turn to be surprised. "Elude capture? What are you saying? Are you pinning this on Sandburg now?" He shook his head and laughed dully at the irony. "Oh, you're slick! You've been targeting him all along, haven't you?"

"I told you, your partner was never targeted."

"You've told us all sorts of things. What I really want to know now is, how much of it is true?"

"All right, Jim," Simon broke in, "that's enough. I'm sure Agent Marconin here hasn't been lying to us. But apparently there are some holes in the information he's been sharing. Of course, it's not his fault. He didn't have the authority to give us the appropriate clearance. Until now." He dropped a stack of papers onto the table in front of Marconin.

* * *

Blair sat with Jake in the middle of a circle of glowing candles. He cringed as he watched Jake take up the candle nearest him and tip it toward a wooden bowl. Much of the wax dripped to the dry, rotted floor beneath.

"This really isn't such a good idea, Jake. If this place starts burning, it'll go up fast. I'm not sure we'll be able to outrun it from this far up."

"It doesn't matter."

"Maybe not to you . . . Look, Jake, I know you're going through some tough things right now. I can help you. But I can't do it alone. Come back down with me, and let's find Jim."

"I told you, I don't need a cop. I need a shaman."

"Do you see a shaman in this room?"

Jake just stared back.

"Jake, listen to me. There is no ritual to protect you from international jewel thieves."

"That's not what this is about."

"Then what is this about, Jake? Isn't it time you told me?"

"It's all about Uncle Will, nothing else."

"And Uncle Will is a jewel thief, isn't he?"

"Maybe, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he made Aunt Sue disappear. Then he killed my parents."

"You know about that?"

Jake looked at him, but did not answer. "If I don't take care of him, he's going to kill me. And probably you, too, just because he saw me with you when he tried to run me down."

"Are you sure that was him?"

Jake shrugged. "It was because of him at least. That's all that matters."

"No, that is not all that matters. Jake, there are a lot of things going on here that neither one of us knows anything about. We have got to get the police involved. Whatever this is, I can assure you it's bigger than your uncle."

Jake nodded. "But all I care about is my uncle. Nothing else matters."

"God! Would you just stop that! Just stop. You can meditate all you want, cleanse your soul, do whatever it is you want to do, but it is not going to stop your uncle!"

"That's where you're wrong." Jake reached into the pack he'd taken the candles from, and retrieved one, last item - an ancient Mayan ceremonial dagger.

* * *

His hands together as though in prayer, Jim closed his eyes and rested his chin against his fingers. He let the silence hold him for a long moment before looking back at Marconin. The agent hadn't moved, his gaze sliding back and forth between Jim and Simon, who was still rubbing his temples.

"Gentlemen," Marconin said, "as you can see, there is a lot more at stake here than a student and a police consultant, no matter how important either one of them might be to you, to this department, or even to the city. We have evidence to link gemstones Brooks has brokered previously to the purchase of materials that could be used to create a weapon of mass destruction. And I don't mean just another Oklahoma City. I mean a Hiroshima. This is, quite literally, a matter of-"

"National security," Jim finished for him. "We got that. But you can't expect us to sit around here and do nothing..."

"Yes," Marconin nodded, "I can expect you to do exactly that. You played a major role in helping us to lay the bait to get Brooks' customer out of hiding-"

"Bait?" Jim asked. "Now you're saying my partner was bait?"

"Jim," Simon scolded, though his heart was clearly not in it.

"No," Marconin answered softly, "the emeralds were bait. The investigation was bait. Both your partner and Jake Connelly unfortunately just got in the way. I assure you I will do everything in my power to see to it neither of them is hurt."

"Forgive me if I don't have a lot of confidence in your power," Jim said bluntly. "For all we know they might both already be dead."

Marconin did not comment. "Confiscating and then releasing those emeralds," he said instead, "made it look as though the investigation had been closed."

"You do know where they are, don't you?" Jim asked him.

Simon leaned forward in his chair.

Marconin still tried to side-step the issue. "The customer would have nothing to fear, but Brooks' would have to be taken care of. He screwed up. And he screwed up bad. And this is one customer who does not accept mistakes. He is going to go after Brooks. All we have to do is wait."

"Where are they?"

Marconin met Jim's glare, but said nothing.

"Agent Marconin," Simon began, "in case I need to remind you, we have been cleared for information on this case."

The agent nodded. "Yes, you have. But I am also empowered to use my discretion regarding the release of information that could jeopardize the outcome of this operation." He studied the two men. "Frankly, I'm convinced you would act against federal orders and try to take matters into your own hands. I can't let that happen."

Jim's jaw clenched tightly. His right hand knotted into a fist.

But Simon spoke before he could. "If you don't tell us what you know about Sandburg, I will personally see to it that every police officer in the city is activated for an immediate search and retrieval. Do you think that might get in the way of your operation?"

Sighing, Marconin shook his head. "I can assure you they are safe for the time being. We have agents-"

"Like the agents at the loft?" Jim interrupted.

"That error will not be repeated."

Simon rested his arms on the table. "At least give us a bone here, will you? We're worried about a friend. If you want us to sit tight, we need something to make us comfortable enough to do that."

The silence hung thick for a while longer, but Marconin finally acquiesced. "All right, I can appreciate your concern." He paused before continuing, as though he needed to consider exactly how much information to divulge. "Jake Connelly stole a motorcycle from uptown," he began. "He drove it to your loft, picked up your partner, then ditched the bike at West Oaks Mall. Security cameras there caught him getting into a 1980 Dodge Omni, also listed as stolen. Those cameras also show that although your partner displayed a degree of reluctance to go along, he did so of his own free will. There is no evidence to show he was forced in any way."

"There you go," Jim started sarcastically, "trying to pin him with auto theft now."

"In any case," Marconin continued, "in answer to your original question, yes, we know where they are. But Brooks hasn't made an appearance."

Before either Jim or Simon could respond, Joel Taggart came to the door, cracking it open. "Excuse me, Simon, but there's an urgent call on line two for Special Agent Marconin."

As Marconin picked up the phone on Simon's desk, Joel nodded to the police captain and stepped further into the room. "There was an explosion down by the waterfront - an upper floor in an abandoned building. Circumstances seem pretty unusual, so I thought I should head down there and check it out."

Jim's blood chilled when he turned up his senses to hear nearly the same words reach Marconin from the other end of the phone line.

* * *

Blair was floating. His head felt . . . That's just it, it felt, as though his skull had taken on new sensory capability. He could feel his brain pushing outward against its bony prison, its little pointy neurons taunting him with tingles and pricks and shivers. Tilting his head toward his shoulder, he noticed that the tingling stopped, but it was replaced by a heaviness that encouraged him to study every movement, to concentrate on how it felt to nod, how it felt to turn his head to the left, to the right. His gaze fell upon his right hand, and he realized his arms were weightless, rising up against the pull of the air as though it were water.

Man, this is . . He giggled. I'm high. How'd I get high? He inhaled, a sweet aroma reminding him of Jake's smoking herbs. You son-of-a-bitch. You got us high. But he couldn't really bring himself to get angry.

"Jake," he said lazily, moving his weighted head until the student was brought into his line of sight, "what're we doing here?"

Jake looked at him and smiled. "It's gonna work." He lifted the red dagger to let its blood drip into the bowl of herbs.

Its blood? Daggers don't bleed. Blair concentrated again on the tingling, and reached his hand toward his head. His hair was damp and sticky, clotted with warm liquid. When the watery air let his hand swim down far enough for him to see it, he noticed it was painted red, like the dagger. "Hey, you cut me, man."

Jake nodded, his smile bubbling into a giggle. "I had to."

Blair wondered why, and watched curiously as Jake raised the dagger to his own head, dragging the blade carefully across his hair-line. When a tiny stream of liquid began to tickle its way down the side of Blair's jaw, he saw the flow began to bloom out of Jake's head across from him. He couldn't imagine how he could feel Jake's blood. No, man. He told himself. He cut us both.

Blair took a deep breath, swooning under the heavy scent of the herbs. He looked down at the bowl again. The dagger was dripping new blood onto the old. The old? Hey, I'm not old.

"We're bonded now," Jake announced, vocalizing each word with slow purpose.

The sound of applause made Blair more confused than ever. He turned his tingling head toward the open doorway, and saw a white-haired man in a dark suit. The man was clapping.

"Well, Jake, you always could put on a good show with your stupidity."

Blair looked at Jake, saw giddiness turn to anger. In a blur of motion Blair could not quite comprehend, Jake curled his fingers around the dagger and stumbled to his feet. The room glowed brighter when Jake kicked over some of the candles, spilling flames across the floor. Captivated by those flames, Blair wondered what he should do about them. But as another trickle of warm liquid dropped to his chin, he wasn't sure what to focus on anymore. The blood? The flames? The clapping man?

Thinking about the man, Blair turned to look back toward the door, but as he moved his head in that direction, he was distracted by an entirely new anomaly. He saw another man hit Jake hard across the jaw. The student fell. The dagger flew from his hand like a crimson bird. Blair followed the bird's trail through a hole that used to be a window, and out into the night sky.

A flame licked Blair's hand and he pulled away. Shocked by the heat, he forgot about the bird and the dagger - but only for a moment. When he remembered them, and the clapping man, he realized there was just too much . . . too much sensory input. Is this how Jim felt?

Jim? Where was Jim? Blair pulled his legs to his chest, drawing himself inward and away from the chaos surrounding him to focus on that single question.

"Get it away from the flames, you idiot!"

Who said that? Distracted from his attempts to reach Jim through meditation, Blair couldn't help but react to the shout. He looked toward the white-haired man, but his eyes were drawn to that other man instead, the one who'd hit Jake. He was coming at Blair. Fast. Was he going to hit Blair, too? He clumsily pushed himself to his feet, but realized the running man wasn't after him at all. Instead, he was diving after something on the floor. It was a small, metal cylinder. And it was rolling into the fire Jake's fallen candles had set.

"No!" the white-haired man shouted.

A pair of strong arms grabbed Blair, adding to his confusion. It wasn't the white-haired man, and it wasn't the one who'd hit Jake. So who was it? But the question melted in the heat. The room spun dizzily around him. And the tingling in his head exploded, drowning him in a black void.

* * *

Part 3

Jim pulled up behind one of several fire trucks parked outside the burning building. "Who's in charge, here?" he shouted to the nearest fireman, showing his badge to avoid getting the run-around.

"You want Captain Forester."

Directed further up the street, Jim raced toward the man who had been pointed out to him, assuming Simon, Marconin and Taggart were right behind him. "Captain Forester?" Once again he showed his badge.

At the man's brief nod, he continued, "What's the status on victims?"

"Nothing yet," Forester shouted back. "FBI said at least two people might be inside. We've got men in there now. But I gotta tell you, it's not looking good. This building should've come down years ago. We're looking at a house of cards here, Detective."

The boom of a new explosion caused Jim to duck instinctively. When he turned back to the building, he saw flames erupting from one of the upper-most floors. A series of shouts and hurriedly followed commands cued him in that the rescuers themselves were in trouble. The entire floor was aglow with a fire hot enough to warm his face, despite the distance. Anyone still up there should be charcoal by now. But that didn't have to mean Blair was still up there. He could have made it to a lower floor. He might even have made it outside.

Jim studied the building's main entrance. It was swarming with firemen. If Blair made it down the main staircase, he'd be in capable hands. But what if he'd found another entrance?

Slowly skirting the building, moving first to the west side then from there to the south, Jim focused all of his senses in his search for his missing partner. He could feel Simon with him, knew his captain was trying to talk to him, but his ears were locked in another direction as he fought to listen for a familiar voice, or at least a familiar heartbeat. He sniffed at the bitter air, felt it burning in his lungs, even as he recognized a unique aroma. It was the scent from the loft, one he'd first noticed in the Connelly's house, in the room that had overwhelmed his senses.

Entranced in his search, Jim didn't realize he had wrapped his fingers around the last, giant emerald. He barely remembered taking it out of the evidence bag in Simon's office. Now it was in his pocket, nestled snuggly in the palm of his hand. And it was leading him into another vision.

He saw Brooks. Once again, Blair's assassin was laughing at him. But this time he said something as well. "An eye for an eye."

That's all there was. The vision ended.

Jim took the emerald from his pocket and studied it.

"An eye for an eye."

The emerald had given him visions, a kind of otherworldly sight. Brooks believed the emerald belonged to him.

"An eye for an eye."

Brooks wanted this emerald. It had to be worth a fortune by itself, and could provide maybe half the value of the entire collection. What would he do to get it back? Would he think it a suitable ransom for Blair?

Did he mean "an eye for a guide," perhaps? Jim would count that an easy trade. He'd never asked for visions in the first place. If they were to continue, what use were they without a guide to help him understand them?

Clenching his jaw in anger and determination, Jim knew he'd trade all of his senses to get his partner back.

"A sentinel needs to be there for the entire tribe," Blair said in the depths of his thoughts.

Marconin's words chimed in an instant later, "I don't mean just another Oklahoma City. I mean a Hiroshima. . ."

"A much bigger fish with sharper teeth. . ."

"You played a major role in helping us to lay the bait to get Brooks' customer out of hiding. . ."

"Bait?" Jim had asked. "Now you're saying my partner was bait?"

"It's the tribe that matters," Blair reminded him.

"Maybe," Jim responded aloud, "but the tribe is made up of individuals."

Seemingly in answer to his thoughts, something pulled Jim's gaze from the gem in his hand to a small shadow on the ground, situated dangerously close to the burning building. Ducking to avoid falling debris, he made his move. It was a dagger. And something about it was familiar. He'd seen that outline before. At the Connelly's. In the secret room. It was the missing dagger.

Jim delicately picked it up, using a piece of paper to avoid disturbing any prints. Fresh blood was drying on the blade. Blair's? He tensed, already believing that to be true.

"What if I'm supposed to be some sort of sacrifice?" Jim could hear Blair's words again in his mind. Thinking back to his original vision, Jim's eyes flashed up to the roof. He almost expected to find the vision come true, to find Brooks up there, rifle in hand, laughing at him once more. What he found instead was a helicopter. The sound of its whirling blades suddenly reached him with numbing clarity above the din of the fire crews.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

It was hovering above the roof. Jim focused deeper. He saw Brooks running toward it, along with two other men - each carried a body slung over one shoulder.

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

Jim focused on the bodies. First, a struggling Jake was lifted into the chopper.

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

Next came Blair. Limp, unmoving, Blair was tied to a line and hauled in with the care and finesse a fair-weather fisherman might use to reel in his latest catch. His hair and face were red, as in Jim's vision - red with blood.

God no, Chief!

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

His own blood boiling in rage, Jim forced himself to think clearly. Those men would not be taking Blair with them if he were dead. No. Blair was still alive.

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

Steadying his breathing, Jim fought to listen for Blair's heartbeat. He had to find confirmation.

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

The sound of the helicopter became the sound of a heartbeat. The two were intertwined. Neither existed without the other.

Thump- thump, thump-thump.

He had to concentrate. He had to focus. He had to be sure.

Thump- thump, thump. . .

"Jim!"

Simon's shout pulled him back. He glanced curiously at his captain, lost for a brief moment between layers of reality. When he looked up again, the helicopter was lifting away into the night sky.

"Brooks is on that chopper," he said. "So is Sandburg."

* * *

Blair heard sounds. There were angry shouts, and something that might be the crack of a whip - or the crack of a fist striking flesh and bone.

"You imbecile," a gruff voice complained. "You good for nothing little shit. I've got two men dead and almost fifteen years of work down the tubes because of you."

There was more cracking.

"You know it's over, Jake." It was the same voice, but softer, almost sympathetic. "Why don't you just give it up and make it easier on everyone? A bullet can be quick, or it can be excruciatingly slow. It depends entirely on where it's pointed. Just give it up, and I'll make sure it's quick. Comprende?"

Blair struggled to open his eyes as he heard a muffled, sniffling reply. Jake? He couldn't make out the words, but the voice was unmistakable.

"You know perfectly damn well what I mean." The gruff voice was back. "The emerald, Jake. Where is it?"

"I told you!" Jake yelled back, his tone gaining strength from some new-found determination. "I don't have it. I dumped 'em all when you tried to run me down."

Crack. It was louder this time, fiercer. A pained scream followed.

Jake, Blair tried to say aloud. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. I have it, man. Had it. I had it. Jim. . . He still could not seem to open his eyes.

As though he were floating away in a dream, the shouts melted into whispers, growing too indistinct for Blair to decipher. He felt himself enveloped in a blanket of semi-silence, one that felt familiar, bringing him back to a time in his childhood when Naomi was entertaining guests late into the night. Part of Blair became that child again, drifting to sleep despite the loud voices in the other room. Another part of him knew there was a danger in those voices, a danger he needed to wake up and face. He felt trapped between two worlds, resting on the precipice of a great, dark void, until a rough hand gripped his shoulder and shook him with nauseating urgency.

"Come on, teacher-man. It's time for a little pop-quiz."

Blair's eyelids finally responded. He almost wished they hadn't when he found himself facing a blinding glare that seared his brain. Lifting his arm as a shield, he was further frustrated when that action awakened even more agony. Everything started to hurt then - his head, his arm, his back, even his toes. He felt as though he'd just played the longest basketball game of his life, and he'd been the ball.

"You had that emerald, didn't you?" It was the gruff voice again. This time it was accompanied by the blurred image of a face. All Blair could really make out was its stark white hair.

"Had," Blair whispered hoarsely. He blinked and tried to shake his head, but it was filled with shards of sharp, broken glass. Even the slightest move sliced him to the core. He couldn't stop himself from crying out against the pain.

"Where are they now?"

Fighting back rising bile, Blair concentrated on his breathing.

"Where are they now?" White-Hair was clearly not pleased with having to repeat himself. Strong hands gripped both of Blair's shoulders, forcing him into the hard surface beneath him.

"Jim," Blair groaned, desperate to prevent his head from splitting open.

He was left alone for a while then, sent back to that precipice where he longed to fully emerge in the child's room, with Naomi laughing on the other side of the door. Instead, iron fingers dug into his arm.

"Hey, teacher-man. You're work's not done yet."

Something was placed into his hand. A cell phone? Squinting, Blair looked at it, confused.

"Call Jim."

"Jim," Blair repeated. Yeah, Jim. I've got to call Jim. Hey, Jim, something's really wrong here. I think I'm in trouble, man - real trouble.

"Call him!"

Blair tried to dial with his left hand, but it felt like it was on fire. Fire? He started to remember things then. Jake had taken him to that building. There were candles. Jake's uncle showed up with his goons. Blair burned his hand. At some point, someone grabbed him. There was an explosion... . That was it. That was everything he remembered. There was nothing else sandwiched in between those memories and this moment. And at this moment, Blair was lying on a concrete floor in some vast, dark room - a warehouse maybe. White-Hair was standing - hovering, more like! - over him.

White-Hair . . . Jake's uncle - William Connelly . . . he was White-Hair! Oh, no shit. Jim, man, I really am in trouble.

"I said, call Jim!" Connelly kicked him in the side.

Blair groaned and curled his legs into his chest. He heard the phone clatter to the ground, and was dimly aware of someone bending down to retrieve it. He felt it thrust once more into his hand.

"Call your partner!"

"Yeah," Blair coughed, "whatever you want." He dragged himself to the wall behind him and leaned wearily against it. A moment later, with a shaking hand and eyes that couldn't quite focus, he pressed the numbers to Jim's cell phone.

* * *

Jim watched the sun rise pacing along the window in Captain Banks' office. "I'm going stir-crazy here, Simon. I need to get out there. We're never going to find them sitting on our hands in here."

"Mm-hmm," Simon answered less than enthusiastically. "And under which rocks are you intending to look? It's a big city, Jim."

Jim sighed. "I know that, sir. It's just-"

"It's out of your control, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. You feel helpless."

Jim stopped in front of the window and stared out at the vista below. "That pretty much covers it."

"We'll find him, Jim."

"Yeah." It was an answer he felt obliged to provide.

Simon rose and crossed the room to stand beside him. "This is the part I hate about this job - the waiting. But all it means is that right now the work's being done by whole teams of other people. Just because we're not doing it ourselves doesn't mean it's not getting done, and far more efficiently, I might add. I don't know about you, but I'd be all thumbs in a forensics lab."

That brought a small smile out of the detective. It wasn't enough to alter his somber mood.

"We'll find him, Jim." Simon said again. "Joel's already reported that they've found traces of some chemical explosive that's supposed to be about as unstable as nitro-glycerin and as highly controlled as plutonium. Marconin should be able to give us a list of both legal purchasers and suspected black market sources for the stuff. That information alone should help us narrow down our search. And the feds are helping track down that helicopter you spotted last night."

"Lucky for us their own agents spotted it too, or they'd just ignore it like they ignored the fact that Sandburg was aboard."

"It would be easier to believe," Marconin replied as he stepped into the room, uninvited, "if you could just explain how it is you saw anyone clearly enough to positively ID them from that distance - through all that smoke - at night."

"I had binoculars."

"So did our agents."

"Mine were better."

Simon just shook his head. "Do you have something for us this morning, Agent Marconin?"

"A peace offering," he said, handing a folder to the captain.

"What's this?"

"The helicopter. Licensed to none other than Driscoll Incorporated."

"Which brings us right back to the murder of your first agent," Jim answered, "our John Doe, also known as Brett Johnson, also known as. . .?" He cocked his had at Marconin, cuing the agent to fill in the blank.

"Steven Bosch. He was my partner for two years after his rookie training. This was his first solo assignment."

"And you feel responsible."

"No more or less responsible than you feel right now for your partner."

Jim nodded in appreciation.

Simon grabbed his coat from the rack, "Gentlemen, I'd say it's time we re-visited Pier 29."

The chirp of Jim's cell phone delayed him from following. "Ellison," he answered tersely.

"Jim?" The voice was weak, but the sound welcome nonetheless.

"Sandburg?"

But it was a different voice that replied. "Detective James Ellison, I presume?"

Jim glanced at his captain and pointed to the desk phone, a silent request to have him trace the call. "And this is Raymond Brooks, I presume?"

"Very good, Detective! You get the gold star for the day."

"What are you after, Brooks?"

"I only want what's mine. There seems to be a small problem with the emeralds since they were returned to us from your evidence room."

"They were never really yours in the first place though, were they?"

"That's immaterial. Your own police records now say they are. And there's one missing."

"How unfortunate," Jim said, absently fingering the emerald in his pocket.

"We want it back."

"And just how do you expect me to help?"

"I want what's mine Detective, and I assume you want what's yours."

"Just spit it out, why don't you."

"A to-the-point man. I like that. Okay, it's simple. You give me that emerald, and I return your partner alive. You refuse, then your partner will be very, very dead."

"What about Jake Connelly?"

"He's not part of the deal."

"Then neither is your emerald."

"You'd bargain away your partner's life for the sake of one wet-behind-the-ears college brat?"

"The way I see it, you have two hostages."

"Jake's a family matter, Detective. He's none of your concern."

"Who's family, Brooks? Certainly not yours."

"Two hours, Detective. That's how much time you have to decide whether or not it's worth it to you to sacrifice your partner's life."

The line went dead and Jim's blood went cold. Brooks' last words haunted him. ...Whether or not it's worth it to you to sacrifice your partner's life.

Jim turned to his captain and watched hopefully as Simon ended his own phone conversation. Yet when Simon set the receiver back into its cradle, a small shake of his head brought Jim's hopes to an end as well.

* * *

"Jake?" Blair whispered to the student beside him. He tried to squirm closer, but his hands and feet were bound, preventing him from getting good leverage. And every little movement caused pain somewhere in his body. He started to think he'd like to get the number of the Mack truck that hit him. Yet vague memories began to tell a different story. He remembered an explosion at Aunt Sue's. A man had been thrown on top of him, shielding Blair from the brunt of the blast.

That Mack truck had probably saved Blair's life.

Wondering briefly how the truck had fared, Blair realized his mind was wandering again. He seemed to have completely lost the ability to concentrate. And if he didn't concentrate he might find himself drifting again, moving from place to place, from setting to setting, without having a clue as to how he got there. One minute he was at Aunt Sue's. The next, he was on the filthy floor of an empty warehouse. Now he seemed to be in the cabin of a small boat, tucked under the bow where he could feel the full impact of each and every wave despite the thin layer of nylon cushions beneath him. Why did there have to be so many waves?

He heard the engine grinding louder as the boat increased its speed. They started bouncing like a giant, toy ball, the waves coming closer and closer together. Things started to rattle. He could feel his head rattling right along with them.

He was drifting . . . Damn it! Focus, Blair! What the hell's wrong with you?

"Okay, so maybe that was a stupid question," he said aloud, though the words were absorbed by the roar of the engine and the rattles the waves brought to life.

Focus . . . Okay, you're hurt, tied up, and stuck in the cabin of a speeding boat. That's not a particularly good scenario. Glancing around the cabin, his eyes fell on Jake and reminded him what he'd been thinking before the drifting started. Jake didn't look good. His face was bruised and battered. His eyes were swollen. Dried, crusted blood had formed under his nose.

"Jake?" Blair called out. "Jake?" He moved his legs to the side and gave Jake's foot a small kick. "Jake? Come on, man." He kicked again. "I need you to wake up. We've got to figure a way out of this."

The boat bounced hard beneath him, lurching Blair's already tense spine. He closed his eyes against the new pain. And he drifted.

* * *

Jim leaned into the wooden railing at the end of the boardwalk and gazed out at the bay. The water was rough. He could even call it angry. That in itself wasn't unusual, but there was something different about it today. Perhaps it was the greener than normal hue, an effect brought about by the gray, autumn sky. It made him think of liquid emeralds.

Brooks had chosen this place, this moment. And he had given them no time to prepare. Fifteen minutes, he'd told them. That was barely enough time to drive down to the marina, lights, sirens and all. It was clearly not enough to organize a solid counter-strike.

Brooks knew what he was doing. Jim would be alone on this one. That's exactly what Brooks wanted.

With a quick look to his left and behind, Jim nodded at Simon and Marconin, two men who had been specifically named in Brooks' phone call. Brooks knew who they were, what they looked like. They were to stand by their cars in the parking lot behind Beyer's Point, in full view. Ten other names were mentioned as well, feds and detectives alike. Brooks was making it known he would recognize any plants or decoys. No one was to be involved in this exchange except Jim.

The distant thump-thump-thump of a helicopter pulled Jim's attention toward the point itself. A finger of land that sat opposite West Haven Marina, Beyer's Point was a favorite picnic area for the marina's high caliber clientele. With the lateness of the season and the current chill however, both the marina and the point were pretty much empty.

Good, Jim thought. There was little extraneous activity to distract him. He scanned the tops of the trees until he could determine where the chopper should emerge from its hiding place, flying low as it was behind the thick foliage. It did not take long for him to lock onto one spot above a grove of pine. Reaching out toward that spot with all of his senses, Jim became a statue, frozen in time. Part of him knew he risked a zone out. Yet, oddly, it was a part that wasn't completely him. Rather, it was a piece of Blair that had lodged deep within his soul. He let that piece reassure him, let it imagine the feel of his guide's hand at his back. Somehow, it was enough.

The chopper skimmed the tops of the trees, finally moving into view, and Jim focused his keen eyesight to zero-in on its occupants. His heart raced, hoping to find what his brain knew he shouldn't expect. When he caught sight of two men, no more, he could already feel the punch of disappointment settle in to his abdomen. Yet that emotion passed swiftly as rage took control. Jim's arms began to tingle as though the wind had turned to ice when a familiar white-haired man, binoculars raised to his own eyes, grinned back at him. Sitting beside the man was a helmeted, faceless pilot. There was no one else in the chopper. There was no sign of Sandburg.

Jim could not prevent his hands from curling into fists. He was barely aware of the tooth-shattering pressure with which he clenched his jaw. He watched in anger and frustration as Brooks lowered the binoculars and brought a cell phone to his ear. An instant later, Jim's phone chirped to life. "Ellison," he answered tersely, his eyes never leaving the grinning Brooks.

"Well done, Detective," the Cheshire cat purred back. "You follow orders very well. No wonder you thrived in the army."

"Get to the point, Brooks. Where's my partner?"

"Patience, Detective. We're almost there. See that boat pulling in off the bay?"

A sleek, white cruiser had just entered the marina and was beginning to move slowly down the first half-empty row of slips to Jim's right.

"It will dock at one-twenty-three," Brooks continued. "Meet it there and get in. Oh, and Detective, don't use your phone unless you're called. Remember, I'm watching."

The line went dead. Jim lifted his gaze to the chopper and watched as it turned toward the bay. Brooks, still grinning, waved back at him. One quick glance at Simon was all Jim dared before he ran up the dock to slip number one-twenty-three.

* * *

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Fumbling out of a fog where the dream world and the real world had become inseparable, Blair opened his eyes to face a swollen mask of purple, red and black. "Jake?" No. It couldn't be Jake. It must be some sort of distorted doppelganger. Yet the shy smile looked right.

"I was starting to get worried," Jake slurred through swollen lips.

"Starting?" Blair tugged at the restraints on his wrists and bit back another wave of pain. The real world had fully taken over. He already missed the dream one. "You should be way past worried, Jake." At least the boat had come to a gently rocking stop. The engine was silent.

"We got him, Mr. Sandburg. We got him." Jake's smile made Blair feel queasy - or maybe it was just the rise and fall of the waves lapping at the hull beneath him.

Blair shook his head, stunned by the student's undaunted optimism. "No, Jake, we didn't get anyone. Look at yourself. Look at me. He got us, man. Not the other way around."

Jake giggled. "We still got him. It's over for him, Mr. Sandburg. Don't you see? We ruined him. We got him."

Blair was dumbfounded by Jake's complete lack of concern. Brief flashes of memory revealed equally puzzling scenarios involving Jake in black leather and performing bizarre rituals in an abandoned building. Blair blew out a slow stream of air as he realized how he'd failed his student. He should have tried harder to get Jake to open up these past few months. He should have been the mentor Jake had wanted him to be. He should have done something. "Yeah," he smiled joylessly. "And if we don't find a way to get off this boat, it's over for us, too."

Jake shrugged. "It was over for me a long time ago."

Damn. "No way, Jake. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"No, man. I got nothing." He grinned. "But I did get Uncle Will. That's something, isn't it? I got him, all right."

What was Blair supposed to say now? "Come on, Jake. See if you can help me find something sharp to cut through these cable ties." Way to go, Blair, avoiding the issue again. But first thing's first, right? Unfortunately, looking for something sharp meant focusing, concentrating and moving, each of which were hard enough to do individually in his current physical condition. Combining all three with the roll of the sea and the absence of fresh air in the belly of the boat made Blair's earlier queasiness reach a pinnacle. He vomited into the crease between the cushion and the inner hull - an action that left him physically drained and sent him spiraling back into the abyss.

* * *

Jim had gone completely against Marconin's - and Simon's - demands. Under no circumstances was he to allow himself to be cut off from his back-up. Yet there he was, alone with four of Brooks' henchmen in a speeding boat heading out to sea. He looked up at the helicopter, which had come alongside after making a wide circle of the waters beyond the marina. Brooks was fully in control of this one. Why had Jim allowed it to come to this? He wondered what he might have done instead, if he'd never had the vision. Was he taking these chances because of or perhaps even in spite of the vision?

"I just got this weird feeling, you know? I mean, what if I'm supposed to be some sort of sacrifice to help you reach a new level?" Sandburg's words continued to haunt him.

Something drew his attention to the horizon, where he let his sentinel vision reach far into the distance until he saw a single, small boat bobbing vulnerably in the waves. Sandburg. He held to that vision as though it were a lifeline - as though, somehow, its very existence proved both he and Sandburg could make it home alive.

* * *

"Mr. Sandburg? Mr. Sandburg, wake up."

"What?" Had he fallen asleep again? Blair blinked to focus his eyes once more on the bruised and battered student. That impish smile remained an absolute enigma.

"I did it Mr. Sandburg," Jake announced proudly.

"Did what?" Blair groaned as he tried to push himself into a less prone position, using an elbow for support. He noticed the sound of a helicopter somewhere in the distance, and realized he heard nothing on board their boat. Were they alone, after all? Yet what did it matter? They were still trapped. "And stop with the 'Mr. Sandburg' all right?" He said irritably. "It's Blair out here. Just . . . Blair." The 'Mr.' part made it sound too much like he was supposed to have all the answers. Instead he was lying in a stalled or dead boat, drifting out to sea for all he knew, and trussed up like some poor, dumb bull at a rodeo. He wasn't even close to having all the answers.

But maybe he didn't have to. As his head began to clear, Blair saw that Jake was rubbing his wrists. "You cut yourself free?"

Jake laughed softly. "The idiots left a knife in one of the drawers in the galley."

Blair, himself barely able to move, wondered at the student's dexterity. Jake would almost have to be a contortionist to manage rifling through the galley's drawers with his hands and feet constrained. Yet somehow he'd done it. Blair watched, still amazed at the thought, as Jake sawed through the restraints around his ankles.

After working the circulation back into his feet, Jake started toward Blair. "I'll have us both out of here in no-"

The helicopter that had been distantly hammering through Blair's skull suddenly ended up directly overhead, the whir of its blades stealing the rest of Jake's words and churning the waters around the boat. That giant toy ball began to move in circles. The world spun dizzily around Blair, but he fought to stay conscious. He had to - if only to keep Jake from doing something foolish. It was a hard struggle. The spinning and bouncing, the crash of waves, the shouts of men, the roar of engines . . . Engines? Was there another boat out there? There was too much going on around him, too much to comprehend. Focus, Blair! Taking one cleansing breath, he let himself become sentinel to his own guide. Tune it all out. Just focus on the boat. Just what's right here. Focus on this cabin.

Blair opened his eyes and looked at Jake, finding the student had moved to the stairs leading to the main deck. He crouched there, clutching his galley knife as though it were a dagger, the bruised shadows of his face grown darker with determination. He was poised to kill. But Blair knew whoever was out there would have guns. And though Jake might be able to knick someone with that dull blade, Blair would be directly in the line of fire.

"Jake?" he called out softly yet urgently. "That's not a good idea, man."

The shouting came closer. A sudden downward pull on the starboard side of the boat was followed by the thud of footsteps. Someone had come aboard. Blair's eyes flicked back and forth between Jake and the cabin door until the knob turned. Then he locked his gaze on the door. His heart pounding like a rock drummer, he waited, helplessly, for the fates to do what they would. The door crashed open. A black-masked frogman stormed in, a spear-gun in his grasp. It was aimed at Blair. He heard the click of a trigger.

When the shooting started, sending shockwaves of blinding explosions deep into his brain, Blair knew his fight was over.

* * *

"The boat's yours, Detective, free and clear," Brooks said over the cruiser's radio. "Just give my men the emerald, and you're free to go."

Jim studied the apparently empty boat beside them. He could hear Sandburg's heartbeat. It was weak, but it was there nonetheless. And there was one other as well, this one pumping hard and fast, as though working on pure adrenaline. That had to be Jake Connelly. "It seems pretty quiet over there," he said in response. "What assurances do I have they're still alive?" Brooks could not know he'd already confirmed that fact.

"You don't. Come now, Detective. I'm trying to be a fair man, here. But how many options do you think you actually have?"

Jim eyed the helicopter coldly, then glanced at the guns aimed at him aboard the cruiser. "Two, as I see it," he answered. "One, I take the boat, give you the emerald and we go our separate ways. Two, the emerald goes into the sea and you're SOL."

"You do that, Detective, and you're all dead men."

"Maybe. But so are you."

"How do you figure?"

"It's not really your emerald, is it?" He paused only for a moment, not expecting a reply. "Okay, here's how it'll work. I board the boat, confirm my partner and Jake are still breathing, check the engine and make sure the gas tanks are full. Then, after I see you take off, I give one of your men down here the emerald."

"I'm not taking my eyes off you, Detective."

"We'll see about that."

But there was a third possibility neither of them could have considered. As Jim started to move, he caught the distant sound of another helicopter. He stopped, reaching out to focus on it, but was interrupted by a sharp pull on the back of the cruiser. Instinct made him dive for cover just as two black-clad frogmen slipped onto the deck and skewered two of Brooks' henchmen with the spear-guns they'd carried aboard. Brooks' remaining men only managed a couple of poorly aimed shots before the battle changed to fists and knives.

Jim glanced up at Brooks, wondering why he hadn't opened fire on the intruders. But Brooks wasn't paying attention. Instead, he was facing another approaching chopper and talking into his radio.

"I had it under control," Jim heard Brooks say.

"No," came the reply, "you lost control a long time ago. You got old, old man. It's time for some new blood."

"If you want your shipment, get out of here and let me finish it."

"You're already finished. Don't make this any worse than it already is."

Brooks looked down at Jim. When their eyes met, the image from Jim's vision came back with frightening clarity. He tensed as Brooks reached for something. An instant later the laughing man from Jim's vision held a flare gun. It was aimed at the empty boat. It might as well have been aimed directly at Sandburg's head.

"Good luck," Brooks said. He laughed and pulled the trigger.

"No!" Jim shouted, already moving to the side of the cruiser. But one of frogmen grabbed his arm, swiveling him back and away from the resulting explosion.

Rage drove his fists forward. All of the worry and anger he'd carried with him since he'd experienced the vision came out with ferocious intensity. The frogman didn't stand a chance. Neither did his companion, when he finally joined the fight. Jim felt nothing - none of the blows that landed on him, not even the slice of the blade that dug deep into his left arm. He felt only cold, dark rage. It was as though he existed only for this moment, as though time existed only for this battle.

When Jim Ellison finally came back to himself, he realized he was using his last target's face as a punching bag, striking again and again and again, long after the man had stopped struggling, pummeling his own knuckles raw. Never hit a man when he's down, he thought soberly, halting his fist mid-strike. Then he heard the crackle of flames behind him and felt a wave of heat lick the back of his neck. He amended the thought. Unless he's responsible for killing your partner. He let the final strike fall hard and fast.

But this man wasn't responsible for that, not really. Thinking of Brooks again, Jim realized the helicopters had flown into the distance. A moment later, the sound of automatic fire told of another battle taking place. It didn't matter. Nothing did now, nothing except that boat burning beside him.

Although it was already taking on water, the flare had struck the rear deck. The fire itself hadn't reached the cabin, which meant there was still hope Sandburg had survived. But that hope wouldn't last for long. If the fire didn't kill him, he'd drown soon enough.

Too wired to listen for a heartbeat - perhaps even afraid what he might find - Jim cautiously jumped from the side of the cruiser, shielding his face from the flames as he splashed onto the submerged deck of the boat. He hurried to the cabin door and pushed it forward, allowing a waterfall to spill violently inside. Following immediately behind, his eyes locked instantly on Sandburg. His partner lay lifeless on a birth under the bow, his face blackened with dried blood, his unruly hair matted with it. But he was alive. The soft, slow heartbeat and the barely discernable rise and fall of his chest made that clear. Yet where was Jake?

Jim looked around the cabin and caught a glimpse of a bare leg. Moving closer, he found an unfamiliar man, clad only in swim trunks. He didn't waste time with guessing games. Checking for a pulse, he found none, and gave the body no further thought. Instead, he scanned the cabin until he was convinced there was no one else aboard.

The boat angled sharply to starboard, knocking Jim off his feet and throwing his unconscious partner face down in the growing swells of water. Jim had just run out of time. The boat was sinking.

He grabbed Sandburg and struggled topside, his feet leaden against the weight of the water. The boat dropped sharply again, then started its quick, downward slide into the depths of the sea. Jim barely had enough time to kick himself free. Sandburg didn't even have that option. Something snagged him, nearly yanking him out of Jim's strong grip. But Jim had come too far to let go now. He held tight, taking a deep breath before being pulled under. The waves locked around him like the thick bars of a cold, foggy prison.

As his eyes began to adjust to the emerald-green world drawing in around him, Jim looked down to see what had taken hold of his partner - the steering wheel. Jim kicked at Sandburg's foot, once, twice. It was no use. The pull of the sinking boat was too strong.

He glanced at Blair's face. The dried blood was being washed away, leaving behind a look of innocence. There were no worry lines, no fear. There was only a thin line of pink at his scalp, a fresh cut. Damn. That wasn't all. The cleansing nature of the water - and the scouring nature of the salt - was opening up a score of wounds that had previously congealed. The green fog was starting to bloom red.

Using Sandburg's body as a ladder, Jim pulled himself down toward the wheel. He held tight to Blair's leg with his left hand, fighting to work Sandburg's foot free with his right. Time slowed. His own lungs began to burn. He didn't want to think about what was happening to Sandburg's. This wasn't going to work. He wasn't going to make it. He was out of air. He was out of time.

Jim closed his eyes, trying to reconnect with his resolve to prove the vision wrong. Sandburg would not become a sacrifice. If his partner was to die here, Jim would die as well. Refusing to compromise, he opened his eyes and tried again. The foot came free.

As the boat dropped into the murky darkness below, Jim kicked with everything he had left, with more energy than he thought possible. He was desperate to reach the surface before another second passed. When he finally broke through, he filled his lungs and looked for the cruiser. It had drifted. It was too far away. He'd never be able to swim that far. Sandburg couldn't wait that long.

"Okay, Chief," he said breathlessly, "we're gonna have to try it right here." He sucked his lungs full once more, then, planting his mouth across his partner's, he exhaled. He repeated the effort again and again, concentrating on infusing life back into the sickeningly still body in his arms. Nothing else mattered. Jim let himself become oblivious to the world around him. Another world took him in, one that filled his thoughts with emeralds.

For a brief moment, the image of the laughing man swam back into view against that sea of green, but before it could reawaken his rage, it changed, morphing into Sandburg, who was smiling back at Jim in that easy-going way of his. It was a welcome sight. Jim did not want to let it go. But he didn't have a choice. It was just an illusion, a memory - a wish. Vibrations in the water called him back to reality, washing the image away and filling his sight instead with green waves swirling around a pale and battered face that gave no reaction.

"Damn it, Chief! Don't cut out on me here."

The vibrations grew stronger. What was causing them? Reluctantly, Jim looked outward to see the cruiser approaching. Part of him found it a welcome sight, a sign of hope. Another part wondered who was driving. But he couldn't worry about that. He couldn't worry about anything except Sandburg.

The next moments blended. Images swam across his vision as Jim continued to force air into his partner's lungs. He saw that smile again, and somehow it transported him back to the jungle. A black jaguar purred, blinking its verdant green eyes. Jim found himself drawn into one of those eyes, seeing it as an island, a paradise, a place of safety. While one arm cradled Sandburg, Jim reached his other hand into his pocket, and wrapped his fingers around a large, smooth emerald.

Jim stared into the glistening facets. There was power within. It was something he couldn't explain, something he shouldn't even believe. Yet somehow it was true. Acting on instinct alone, he gripped the gem tighter and closed his eyes. He focused on the movement of his own lungs, drawing air in and out. He concentrated on the heartbeat, so like a tribal drum, that kept those lungs pumping. And he called back the image of that smiling Sandburg. An instant later, he opened his eyes once more, took a long breath, and forced the life he'd drawn down into his partner's lungs.

Blair coughed.

And the cruiser was beside them. Jim could ignore it no longer. The motor idled softly in the water, sending tingles of energy through Jim's body as though the sea had become a gigantic Jacuzzi. He could only wish that were true. As hard as he'd fought already, it was all about to be proved worthless. Someone was alive in that cruiser. Whether it was one of the frogmen or one of Brooks' henchmen, it really didn't matter. Either way, they'd want him dead. No, not exactly. First they'd want the emerald. Then they'd want him dead.

A hand reached down to him. Jim looked up to the hidden face of a frogman.

"Come on, man! We've gotta get back to shore!" The voice didn't fit the image. It was too young. And the hand was too smooth. There were no lines, no calluses.

"Jake Connelly?"

"Yeah." The frogman pulled off his mask to reveal a tangle of red hair and a youthful face spotted with freckles and bruises. He was battered but energized. The shy kid Blair had spoken of must have tapped in to the competent man within. "Sorry about that. Come on." He reached down again. "I've seen about as much of this water as I ever want to."

"You and me both, kid," Jim answered tiredly. "You and me both." As he allowed himself to sink into a sudden, unexpected sense of relief, he opened himself up to an equally unexpected and intense exhaustion. He barely had the strength to lift Sandburg into Jake's grasp, yet he couldn't let go until he'd climbed aboard himself, guiding his partner carefully along the way.

* * *

Simon walked quietly into Blair's hospital room. From the chair beside the bed, Jim gave a small, tired nod in greeting.

"How's he doing?" the captain asked.

"I'm not sure." Jim stole a long glance at his partner. He felt nearly as helpless as he had in the water. "They keep saying they won't know much until he wakes up."

Simon shook his head. "Sometimes I think doctors are about as useful as weathermen."

Jim couldn't bring himself to acknowledge Simon's attempt at light-hearted humor. "So what's the word on Brooks?" he asked, his eyes still drifting to Sandburg.

"Marconin admitted you were right. Brooks was on the receiving end of an internal power struggle. Someone else in his organization wanted to get all the credit for taking back that emerald. Brooks would have rather seen it lost in the ocean than give it over to whoever his rival was."

"That would explain his torching the boat. What about the choppers?"

"Disappeared. Both of them. Right along with most of Marconin's case."

"They don't believe Brooks' chopper went down?"

"Do you?"

Jim met his captain's gaze. "In my experience, sir, men like Brooks never die when you expect them to. He's still alive out there, and he'll be back selling his soul to the highest bidder before. . ." He turned back to Sandburg.

"Before what?"

"Before Sandburg here gets back to his classes."

"Late. . .?" The voice coming from the bed was a barely discernable whisper. "My class. . .?"

Jim rose from his seat and leaned closer to his partner. He touched Sandburg's arm lightly with his own bandaged hand. "Hey, Chief. Is that you in there?"

"Am I late?" Sandburg blinked his eyes open and asked again.

Simon laughed softly. "Sandburg, I'd say for once you were right on time."

* * *

Blair sat on the couch with his laptop and a stack of papers. He was never going to catch up with his classes. Frustrated, he sighed and leaned back against the cushions.

"You ready to accept some help with that stuff, Chief?" Jim called out from the kitchen.

Blair couldn't help but smile. "Man, there is nothing I'd like better. But. . ." He sat forward and turned on the television. "I just need to take a break. There's not much you could really do for me, unless that emerald really did give you some new psychic powers and you could mentally transmit back to me whatever information you read."

"Yeah. Didn't I tell you about that?"

Startled, Blair turned around to face his partner. Jim just replied by humming a bad interpretation of UFO sound effects from some 1950's movie.

"Funny," Blair said sarcastically, settling into the cushions again. "Very funny." He turned up the volume to hear a news report from Scotland.

". . . The upcoming trial of two Libyans who are suspected of bombing Pan Am Flight 103 in December 1988. The explosion killed all 259 of the flight's crew and passengers, as well as 11 people on the ground in the town of Lockerbie, Scotland. The flight was en route from London to New Yorkii."

"Jim?" he called without turning around. But Jim was busy and apparently not paying attention.

". . . Professor John Grant of the Lockerbie Trial Briefing Unit says it will be the international trial of the decade."

"Jim?" he called again, then realized Jim was already beside him.

"What's up, Chief?"

". . . Involves allegations of the largest mass murder in Scottish legal history."

"What if Marconin was right about that terrorist?"

"How do you mean?"

". . . For years Libya refused to surrender the men, only doing so this year after several years of international sanctions. . ."

Blair's eyes were locked on the TV, though his thoughts drifted much farther afield. "What if we all just got in the way? I mean, if it wasn't for Jake and his whole mess, maybe the feds would have caught the guy."

"What are you trying to say, Sandburg? You're not feeling guilty, are you?"

"Well, yeah." He looked at Jim. "If you didn't have to rescue Jake and me, Brooks might not have gotten away, and-"

"Listen here, Chief. Brooks might still have gotten away. You didn't cause any of it. You and Jake both just got sucked into the whole thing. You had as much choice as a-"

Blair saw Jim tuning his senses into something near the ceiling, and followed his partner's gaze to a small web in the corner.

"As a fly in a spider's web." Patting Blair's shoulder, Jim got up and started back toward the kitchen. "And by the way, as soon as you get caught up on your school work, I think it's high time you started catching up on some chores around here."

". . . In other news, President Clinton announced today that. . ."

Still looking at the web, Blair realized Jim had gone back to cooking. "Hey, what about the web?"

"What about it?"

"Doesn't it bother you to leave it there?"

Jim shrugged. "Should it?"

Stunned, Blair couldn't believe his ears. He got up to get a broom, intending to take care of the web himself. But the broom took on new meaning as he passed Jim in the kitchen. "All right," he said accusingly, pointing the broom at his roommate as though it were a weapon, "who are you, and what have you done with my partner?"

Jim's eyes went wide as he repeated his UFO sounds.

Blair shook his head. "No man, that's not how you do it. It's like this. . ." Suddenly, the threats of the real world faded into the background, as black and white robots with laser guns took precedence in a particular loft in the heart of the city of Cascade.[ii]

~ end ~

**Author's Note:**

> [i] Author's Note: I have to thank Martin Prechtel, whose book, Secrets of the Talking Jaguar, helped me to find a connection with Blair Sandburg, a character I am certain would be fascinated by Prechtel's writings. Likewise, I have to thank the world of Sentinel fic for inspiring me to begin the research which resulted in my discovery of Mr. Prechtel, whose words have also given me a glimpse into my own heart and my own connection to the world around me. This story marks my first full dive into the world of Sentinel fic. For anyone who is interested in learning more about the Mayan culture, and for anyone who is interested in the teachings of a living shaman, I highly recommend that you place Martin Prechtel's books on your reading list.
> 
> [ii] References:
> 
> "Saving the Indigenous Soul: An Interview with Martin Prechtel," by Derrick Jensen. (http://hiddenwine.com/indexSUN.html).
> 
> Secrets of the Talking Jaguar, Memories from the Living Heart of a Mayan Village, by Martin Prechtel, 1998 (Jeremy P. Tarcher-Putnam).
> 
> "Lockerbie Trial Briefing Unit Discusses Trial of Libyan Suspects," by Rick Marshall, Washington File Staff Writer. USIS Washington File. November 5, 1999. (http://www.globalsecurity.org/intell/library/news/1999/11/991104-libya-usia1.htm)


End file.
